The Comfort of Lies
by ramblingonandon
Summary: There is a rift between Athos and Aramis because of the truth that they share and the lies they use to cover it. There is a mistake and a mission and things come to light, some of them that Athos wished had remained in the dark.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: While I try to write a story where no character is neglected this story is purely [my gratuitous indulgence] Aramis &Athos based and inspired by the friendship of Athos and Aramis that went through the entire spectrum in season two. So this is set somewhere in the middle of that season when they were not in a good place and sort of explains the behavior at the end of the season, because they just let Aramis go too easily - just accepted his seemingly abrupt decision. **

**Other than that, the title and the tone of the story is inspired by the song "Lie" by David Cook. Give it a try and the story will make a lot of sense.**

 **Happy reading…**

* * *

" _ **He is my most beloved friend and my bitterest rival, my confidant and my betrayer, my sustainer and my dependent, and scariest of all, my equal."  
― **__**Gregg Levoy**_

* * *

The night is still and dark beyond the arched top windows.

The air is thick and warm, taking up too much space in his leathers.

His hair are damp under his hat and a bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face as his eyes scan the empty corridor. His boots hardly make a sound on the polished floor as he walks the entire length, one hand on the hilt of his rapier in his belt as he turns the corner to stop just short of running into Aramis.

"Athos," the man smirks as he rolls back on his heels, "the chambers assigned to Lady Solange are secure; everything is as it should be."

He nods and bites back the urge to note that of course his friend would know all about a lady's chambers. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve he readjusts his hat and reins in the ire that is a staple these days whenever this man is in his sight.

Aramis takes off his own hat and flaps it in an effort to lighten the cloying air.

"It's about time we get some rain in Paris," he says, "can't wait for it to wash away this clinging heat,"

"Not everything that sticks can be easily washed away,"

Aramis looks to him, smooths away Athos' barbed tone with a smile of his own.

"Not everything that sticks is wished upon to let go,"

And his eyes widen at his own declaration.

Athos has a feeling there was something there under the words that his friend had not wanted to slip out. But before he can pursue that thought footsteps from the corridor he had left behind reach them; and they turn the corner as one just as His Majesty laughs at something Lady Solange had said. The King is clearly delighted by the company of his distant cousin's widow, besotted enough to accompany her to her chambers it seems while Rochefort slithers after them. Athos is thankful that the Queen hadn't made it up to the corridor and casts a sideways glance towards Aramis.

If his friend notes the absence he does not show.

And Athos looks back to the nearing group to catch the way Lady Solange's eyes keep drifting towards them. Aramis shifts on his feet, the lady's gaze lingers and Athos feels his blood boil in his veins.

"Don't," he says, lips barely moving.

"Of course," but the impertinence is there.

Halfway down the corridor Lady Solange is openly staring. Her inquiry about the musketeers rings clear over to where they stand and His Majesty, despite his recently acquired distaste for the regiment of his elite guard, leads the way towards them with unchecked pride.

"These men are among the best of the best in France," he says, "nothing less could be demanded to guard the King,"

"Of course Your Majesty," she smiles, "I've heard stories of their valor and loyalty,"

Rochefort's nose wrinkles, lips pursing like he had accidently stepped into a pile of manure.

"Your Majesty is too kind," Athos bows, so does Aramis.

"Ah! But you have always been vigilant in defending the crown," a broad smile breaks over their King's face, "Treville has trained his men well,"

"Your Majesty it seems Lady Solange would wish to retire for the night," Rochefort speaks up, "the excitement of today would have taxed her delicate disposition,"

Athos finds nothing delicate about the way the first minister had cut off the direction that the King's thoughts had taken.

"Yes, yes ofcourse," His Majesty moves along, "tell me my lady how are things at your estate, I've been told the farms around it haven't been faring well,"

And even as they leave Lady Solange glances back over her shoulder, once, twice and in the flickering lights of the hallway Athos catches her smile. His eyes slant sideways to catch a responding grin on Aramis' face and his jaw twitches.

"Stop it," he says.

"I was merely being polite,"

Athos turns to him fully, fists clenched at his sides in an attempt to smother the angry flame burning white hot in his chest.

"It is not your place to show such politeness," he says, his voice steady even though it is lowered to a whisper, "for once think of the consequences your actions can bring or is it that you simply don't care who you drag down with your recklessness,"

There is a flash of something in the brown eyes, a gleam of something that whisks away as soon as it shows and leaves his friend's gaze softened. Aramis presses a hand to his heart in a gesture both mocking and sincere though Athos be damned if he knew which to hold onto.

"I give you my word Athos, I will not pursue Lady Solange," he smiles.

"Aramis! Aramis come and see the lady to her chambers," the royal command rings out from the other end of the hallway.

And Athos wonders if he should brush up on long forgotten prayers, not for himself but for the man beside him because temptation is to Aramis what a battle is for a soldier; the allure of a challenge and the thrill of survival.

Something must have shown in his eyes because his friend grasps his elbow and meets his gaze again.

"You have my word," he repeats before turning away.

Athos can do nothing but watch him walk down the hallway, bow to the royals and follow the Lady Solange around the other corner. He knows Aramis in the palace is a dangerous thing, Aramis unchecked in the palace even more so. It dawns on him a little belatedly that his friend had said nothing about not pursuing the Queen.

Gritting his teeth Athos stalks off for another round of the hallways.

He does not see his friend again that night.

Come morning he is fuming.

When Aramis stumbles out through the door of Lady Solange's room with tousled hair, hastily buckling close his coat with his hat tucked under his arm, Athos is there.

There is a moment when disbelief reigns supreme, tinged with guilt for one and fury for the other. The hands on the buckles give up their task and reach for him but Athos grabs the front of his friend's coat, hauls him forward with the leather crunching in his grasp as he drags him around the corner and slams Aramis back against the wall.

"I can expl –"

"You gave me your word!"

Aramis' eyes dart around as though afraid of being discovered and isn't that amusing Athos thinks bitterly.

"I know but she –"

"I don't care what she said or how lonely she was or how beautiful she is," he gives the man a shake, cannot keep the disappointment from his eyes as he looks at him, "I thought us – our brotherhood, it meant something to you."

"Athos…"

He shoves the man back. Feels the hard thump of it in his hands still clenched in the coat before he releases his grasp and steps back from Aramis; turns away to face the end of the hallway and forces his back straight, his shoulders squared.

"Athos I –"

He raises a hand and cuts the excuse short into silence.

It is only half an hour after dawn and already the sunlight is bright where it shines into the hallway through the line of windows. So bright that his eyes sting and his view blurs as he wonders what possessed him to voice what he just had.

They were comrade in arms, nothing more nothing less.

"Athos –"

"Porthos and d'Artagnan would be here by now," he says, "it is time for the change of guard,"

* * *

He gives his report to the Captain.

Aramis stands by his side, fingers tips pressed white over the rim of his hat in his grasp.

Athos is succinct and bland in the retelling of an uneventful shift; he cannot bring himself to voice the error of the man besides him. It was dereliction of duty, a disregard of the safety of his fellow guards and the crown itself but he cannot say that. He had kept the secret of high treason after all, what is one more event lost into the folds of silence.

And why he thinks that way Athos does not wish to dwell on that.

What he wishes is for a bottle of wine or an entire keg if he could get one.

"Very well," says the Captain, "get some breakfast and rest. You will be needed for duty tonight,"

He nods and walks out of the room.

He can feel Aramis behind him but the man only makes it as far as the door to the Captain's office when Treville calls him back.

"There's a mission I need to discuss with you," he says.

There is no room to argue in the not-quite order and Athos doesn't turn back to catch the way his friend's hand lingers midair, fingers curling on empty space where Athos' shoulder had been.

Instead he stomps down the stairs, through the yard and out into the busy street. By the time he reaches his rooms outside of the garrison there is a n invisible band tightening around his chest and his breathing is ragged. Tossing his hat on the bed, he pulls at the collar of his doublet even as his other hand reaches for the bottle on the table left open from last evening. He downs the contents in one go.

It's bitter and warm and does nothing to sooth his parched throat.

His mind wanders back through the halls of the convent again and not for the first time he retraces the events, looking for that point where he could have stopped the inevitable that night.

Wiping a hand over his face Athos slumps onto his bed.

The wine left by his bedside tastes no better. It sticks to the back of his throat, burns against the salty lump rising there and his eyes water. Athos draws a sleeve over his eyes and berates himself for the show of weakness even if the witness is an empty room.

For the first time in a long time he had believed in something. In the company of the two most stubborn, brave and rowdy men of the regiment he had found that warmth of being a brother again.

Unexpectedly, unknowingly, unwillingly.

Until it had been threatened that night.

The bottle is empty in his hand; the glass is a cool empty shell in his grasp.

Athos throws it against the wall with all his might.

And breathing heavily he watches the shards of glass scatter like stars over the dusty floor.

With a tired groan he reaches for the bottle rolling just inside the front edge of his bed. The room tips and his boots scuff against the floor in an attempt to find purchase. Athos lands on his folded knees, ignores the pain reverberating in his bones and pulls out the cork from the bottle with his teeth.

The wine brings no comfort.

He convinces himself otherwise.

Even when in sits like sloshing fire in his gut and rises back up past his lips.

His throat is raw and torn as he grasps the edge of the cot to keep from keeling over. He had not expected the grounding pressure that alights on his back and the hand begins moving in an even rhythm between his shoulders. His hair are gathered back from his face as his stomach doubles the effort to get rid of the wine he had so enthusiastically consumed.

"Alright, it's alright you're done, c'mon now Athos up you go," and hands on his arms haul him back onto the bed.

He coughs and groans.

A gentle touch rests against the side of his face and water, blessed cool water touches his lips. He drinks with the abandon of a man left behind in a desert, desperate in his eagerness and splashing half of it on himself. But he is only offered more until he jerks his head away.

The same hands that had picked him up ease him down onto his side on the bed. Athos curls forward around his stomach and blinks away the bleary haze in his eyes; wincing against the glare of sunlight cutting in through the window.

There are footstep and a rustle and the light dims.

He finds a Musketeer blue cloak hung over the window that is still open in a wish to keep the still air moving.

He looks back to the man crouching by his bedside and shivers lightly at the wet cloth that wipes over his face. Aramis looks somewhere between worried and exasperated but the brown eyes fixed on him are filled with warmth.

"Well what else did you think would happen after getting drunk on an empty stomach?" his voice is low in deference to the headache Athos is sure to be visible on his face.

"And you have the right to lecture me about consequences?" he rasps.

"If you would listen to me and let me explain it might just help you,"

"Explanations after the deed is done help no one Aramis,"

He rolls onto his back and closes his eyes, throws an arm over them for good measure.

"They won't if you've already made up your mind," the words are sharp but the cool cloth that settles on his forehead is soft.

Athos ignores the rattle of bucket and the splash of water on the floor, the world falls away for a few minutes and when he opens his eyes the room is considerably darker. The evening light has not enough strength to push through the heavy blue cloak that still hangs over the window. And yet he squints as he stumbles his way over to pull away the make-shift curtain.

The room is clean.

There is a plate of bread and cheese on his table with a note in Aramis' writing.

It says to eat because the Captain has a mission for them.

* * *

"You will leave your horse and belongings at the Red Guard outpost here, I have ordered Marcoux to wait there for you on his return from his assignment," the Captain taps the point on the map where the outpost is, "he will bring Joie back to the garrison as you leave to meet Vargas' agents here,"

"That will be tomorrow afternoon," Aramis nods.

"Your place of contact is about an hour's ride away, northwest of the outpost,"

"But it would take us longer since we'll be short of a horse because Aramis here will be my prisoner," Athos refuses to look at the man at his side, it's an intelligent plan – he hates it.

It takes all of the reserve instilled in him from an early age to stand there and hammer out the details of the mission. The mission that requires him to act as an unlucky Comte looking to restore his riches by selling off a Spanish spy he had caught. The Spanish spy here being one of his best friends.

"Vargas is a Spanish spy master, I cannot send in the number of men I want to; he would see them coming from miles away," the Captains says, "you two will have to be discreet, when his men will find him missing they will come after you."

"So we snatch him up and make for the outpost," Aramis adds, "you will have reinforcements waiting,"

"Exactly, any questions?"

It is a sound plan, as much as it can be given the circumstances. Vargas is stirring trouble for the crown and it is their duty to bring him to justice. Athos knows all about duty, he knows all about effective strategies. The assignment makes sense on both these levels.

He absolutely hates it.

Athos grits his teeth and changes out of his uniform into the rich, if a bit weathered set of clothes the Captain had presented him with. The doublet hangs loose slightly but Athos clinches it with a belt and forgoes the bejeweled rapier that came with the clothes for his own blade. He is not leaving behind his pistol and ammunition either.

They are preparing their horses in the stables as the evening sets in completely. Athos checks the saddle and smooths out the edges of the saddle blanket as Aramis adjusts the girth on his ride. His friend is smiling as he talks to his horse, as he is usually inclined to do and Athos who is used to the man's chatter finds it grating.

"Did you ask the Captain to bring me along for this mission?" he asks.

Because he knows how artfully the man can bend a situation to suit his needs.

"Yes,"

"Why?"

And there are so many questions in that one word.

"Why not ask for someone else?"

Because at the moment they are not exactly at ease in each other's presence.

"Porthos and d'Artagnan are still on duty and I need someone I can trust on this assignment," Aramis draws a hand over his horse's flank and looks Athos straight in the eyes, "Someone who could watch my back and can hold his own too, if Vargas is a friend to Spanish spies it goes without saying that he is an enemy of Frenchmen."

This confidence in him is a jarring thing.

After all they had been through, of the secrets shared between them, Athos is not sure he understands this trust. Without a word he hooks a foot in the stirrup and swings up into the saddle, guiding his horse out into the yard. The dark inky blue is spreading across the sky and already the lanterns are lit in the courtyard.

Athos does not wait as he rides out through the arched gateway and out into the streets of Paris. And yet there as an echo of hooves against the cobblestone right behind him, his friend has no problem keeping up. It spurs him to dig his heels in the sides of his horse as he expertly guides the animal out of the narrow lanes of the city and away from the dwindling crowd until they are outside of Paris.

The moon sits high in the sky and lights the way for them with an eagerness that stands in contrast to the dread coiling in his gut. There is something that pricks at Athos and demands that he pay attention. A feeling like he is missing something crawls up his spine even as he slows down the horse.

The other man pulling alongside him instantly is not a surprise

"Tired already?" Aramis grins from beside him.

Athos raises a brow.

"The road is empty and the night is young," the flourish is over dramatic, "I propose a race up till that bend,"

Athos looks far where the dirt road seems to dip amidst the tuft of green. Displeasure pinches the corner of his eyes and he glances at the man who gives a petulant huff. Aramis' horse nickers in the reflection of his rider's impatience.

"I don't suppose the Captain had that in mind when he asked us to make haste,"

"I don't remember him forbidding it either," Aramis winks at him and looks down the road, there is something starkly different than mischief in his eyes when he looks back at Athos, "Why not enjoy this while it lasts?"

And then he is off.

Leaving dust plumes in the moonlight in his wake.

Athos rolls his eyes and follows.

They don't stop at the designated finish line. Through that unspoken language they share it's mutual to just keep thundering on. Even when they slow their rides to a canter there is no conversation, just this intense focus on moving on and Athos spares a glance towards his friend as their horses move neck to neck. Every line in the rider beside him seems intent, streamlined towards a point only the man can see.

This fervent stubbornness frightens him and Athos is glad to spot the stream ahead. That is where they stop, beyond a copse of trees that hides them from the road as the fresh water gurgles past them. There is no need for a fire, the night is beyond warm and the moon in the clear sky provides enough light to get by.

Having taken care of his horse Athos retrieves a bottle of wine from his saddle bag and finds himself sitting against a tree. He watches his friend tie up his own ride and plop down across him with another tree at his back. Aramis produces two apples from the bag at his side and tosses one at him.

Athos would rather have the wine but catching the fruit is simply reflex.

His friend flashes him a smile and bites into his own apple.

"Tell me that didn't lift the gloom off you," he says.

Feeling just a bit lighter Athos indulges him with a nod.

"See I knew it would do you good, the freedom of nature and the fresh country air – Well not that fresh, it is rather thick and too warm…"

Athos lets him carry on the one-sided conversation and decides to eat the apple since they would be riding on again soon enough, better he ate now than on a fast moving horse.

"…I'll miss him you know," Aramid says, "leaving him behind doesn't feel right,"

Athos follows his line of sight towards the horse; Joie seems oblivious to the attention though and he glances back to the man who had taken out a rag to wipe down his musket.

"It has to be done," Athos says.

"That doesn't make it easy," Aramis shrugs, his eyes fixed on his task although he could probably do it in his sleep, "it's hard to walk away."

Athos sits upright with a jerk. His blue eyes scan the features of his friend's face that are shrouded in the play of dark and light under the silver glow of the moon. His heart beats fast in his chest and he does not let go of the scrutiny, it is there just under the surface, something that he can put a name to but won't. Athos pulls away and sinks back against the tree.

"You don't have to be so dramatic about it," he says.

And Aramis picks up the levity he is offering.

And laughs like he is a man with no troubles.

"Oh you know me, what's a romantic hero type without a touch of flair?"

"A man with common sense?"

"You can only wish Athos," the other grins.

"I do in fact," he finds it slipping past him without thought, "but like you said it is only a wish,"

The hand with the rag pauses for a second and he knows that the touch of bitterness in his words hadn't been overlooked. Still the other man smiles and resumes his task.

"Love makes a fool out of us, even out of you mon frère,"

"I rectified that mistake, I didn't know she would survive," he snaps.

"There are other forms of love than a romantic one,"

It's like they are running around a pole, having no idea who is chasing whom but with each turn the tether that ties them to the pole keeps getting short, Athos knows he would eventually have to hear what he had thrust back into silence just now.

But not this night he tells himself and gets to his feet.

"We should keep moving," he says.

"I'm getting tired Athos,"

The words are just a rustle in the air, a barely there sigh in the night, but it is enough. He stops in his tracks and turns around to find the dark eyes looking his way. And Athos silently denies what he had heard, stares blandly at his friend to force him to change his words. The grove of trees echo with the song of night bugs and Athos still maintains a stubbornly blank look.

Aramis runs a hand through his hair and leans back; a smirk curls at the corner of his lips.

"Let the horses rest for a while captain tight-reins," he says.

And Athos lets it be.

* * *

They make it to the outpost early next morning. It is set up in a house large enough to accommodate twenty men easily and the stables are well kept. They meet Marcoux who had stopped their last night and after breakfast the three men convene outside of the stables.

"…and he hates being led around by another horse – just don't yank on his reins if he gets too upset." Aramis says as he scratches the horse between the ears.

"I understand," Marcoux looked to Athos with an exasperated smile, "I'll be gentle,"

"Thank you, it's just that he's a bit temperamental and prone to fidget –"

"I understand Aramis,"

"And if he starts chewing on his bit too much –"

"Aramis please stop acting like an overbearing parent," Athos says.

His friend looks to him in wide eyed shock.

The hurt there makes his heart ache.

Of course his friend knows what's it like to leave his child in another's care, the magnitude of that worry would be so much more than the concern Aramis is showing over a horse. And Athos tells himself that he does not care that he's the one person his friend would have expected not to make such a remark. It is about time that the other man bury such thoughts and expectations, they would only bring him closer to the noose.

He does not retract his words and when his friend looks away, Athos refuses to acknowledge the knot tightening in his stomach.

Once Aramis is satisfied that his ride would be properly taken care of his weapons and uniform follows. He's petting his pistols like one would their faithful hounds and folds them in his blue sash with care. Something constricts in his chest as Athos watches his friend unbuckle the pauldron on his shoulder. He knows it's silly because it's not like they live with the pauldron always on their shoulder. But Athos doesn't miss the way his friend slides a palm over the leather that's embossed with the pride of a soldier and carved with the battles he had seen.

The look in his friend's eyes has Athos glancing away.

They watch Marcoux bundle the items and begin his journey back to the garrison. Athos takes the reins from the stable-hand and leads his horse out of the low gates and onto the road. Aramis doesn't point out that he has a ride he can get onto and they walk on in a silence that is deceptively comfortable.

A few hours later they stop at the side of the road when Athos feels like they are near the place where they are to meet Vargas' men. Taking a drink from his canteen Aramis surveys the road left before them and closes the cap as he hands over his water to Athos for keeping. He nods towards the loop of rope hanging from the saddle.

"Let's make this look believable," he says.

Athos takes care in tying up the wrists offered to him, making sure they are tight enough to be credible but not too much. The smile on his friend's face isn't lost on him, nor is the fond look in his eyes. Athos blinks at the sight of it, feels his throat tighten at what he sees behind the compassion – something that had been there when Aramis had looked at his pauldron in his hand.

And Athos does not want that look.

The look that speaks of farewells.

"I was thinking that after we're done with this –"

Athos steps back and punches the man across the face.

Hard.

He tells himself that it was not the force but the surprise of it that had his friend dropping to the ground.

Aramis pushes himself to sit up and spits blood, a frown breaking on his face. His lower lip is split near the corner and already there is a purple stain spreading out from the spot. He raises his bound hands and gingerly touches the spot before drawing his fingers away with a hiss.

He looks up at Athos and the brown eyes suddenly gleam with mirth from under the loose curls as a smirk pulls at his lips regardless of the damage.

"Is this the part where I beg you to kick me?" he asks.

Athos cannot stop the smile this time as he reaches forward to grab the bound hands. He finds himself reflecting back that bright grin as he pulls the man back to his feet.

"You insisted it look believable," he says, "A spy couldn't have been caught without a fight you know,"

"Of course, though a warning would have been nice,"

"I thought to fight honourably was to die young," Athos tied the rope through the one bound around his friend's wrists, "but if you wish I suppose I could warn you next time,"

"Your compassion is astounding,"

Blue eyes seek brown and whatever that had been lurking in the latter is gone.

For now.

Pulling in a bracing breath Athos reaches out to grasp his friend's shoulder and gives it a squeeze. His friend's smile softens and Athos turns away to swing up in his saddle. His heart still racing in his chest, blood rushing against his hearing like an instinctual defense mechanism against where he knows that statement from earlier was headed.

Forcing himself to bury what he had seen, to deny what he had heard, Athos nudges his horse into a walk. The end of the rope is slack in his hand, the other end of which is tied to Aramis' bound wrists.

And together they make their way to meet Vargas' men.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone for reading this, let me know what you thought of it…**


	2. Chapter 2

**WARNING: Violence. This one turned out Darker than I was expecting… **

* * *

The sun is at its peak, the canopy above provides shade at the cost of trapping the heat like a natural oven. Athos quietly sympathizes with every baked food he had ever consumed and glances down at his friend who at least has the comfort of being in a simple shirt. Aramis catches his gaze and a teasing grin appears on his face.

"Enjoying the scenery Athos?"

Athos raises an eyebrow.

"I assumed we were on a mission," he says.

"That never stopped us from seeking enjoyment before,"

"Maybe it should have," his voice is ice.

Aramis stops in his tracks and looks up at him.

Purses his lips into a thin line of a smile and tip's an invisible hat.

"Touché," he says.

Athos clenches his jaw shut and urges the horse to move again.

They push through the thick heat and thicker vegetation until Athos pulls his horse to a stop and looks around at the trees surrounding them. The woodland is quiet here, the clearing stilted with a presence in the shadows of its too neat borders and Athos' skin prickles.

There are unknown eyes here.

A quick glance down to his side and he finds Aramis staring ahead, his shoulders too loose to be relaxed.

This is it.

Athos gives two sharp whistles and one low in quick succession.

His horse paws the ground, somewhere a crow squawks and a minute ticks by.

And then the combination is whistled back to him from the trees beyond the clearing. Booted footfalls echo out to him and within a span of seconds they are surrounded by five men. Each armed with a pistol and a sword and pointing at least one weapon their way.

The mask of a perpetually unimpressed noble is like a second skin and as Athos' gaze flicks to Aramis the man looks everything a Spanish spy would in the situation, contemptuous in his gaze and a word away from violence in his posture.

"The Comte I assume?" the big red head sheaths his sword, "I'm Gustav; and this is the spy you caught then?"

He looks Aramis up and down.

"A lousy spy to get caught by the likes of the coddled nobility," he says.

"Still better than hired dogs like you," Aramis shrugs.

That earns him a fist to the face and before Athos can blink Aramis launches at Gustav like a man possessed. It's the shock of the sudden ferocity that gives him a pause and since his friend is still a man tied up, possessed or not, he is easily subdued by Gustav's men. With his hand on his sword Athos is about to jump to the rescue but a fleeting glance his way from his friend leaves him rooted in the saddle. He hates what is asked of him in that look and he hates that his friend is right and that the man is apparently good at this.

Aramis is still struggling against the hold of four men, snarling and swearing when Gustav steps closer and punches him in the gut; again and again and again. Aramis falls to his knees with a groan and Athos finds the edge of his own sword resting against Gustav's neck.

"Enough," his voice does not waver, does not betray the shivering in his very flesh at the sound of his friend's ragged, pain filled breathing.

He keeps his eyes fixed on Gustav.

"I will not have you damage the means of my riches," he says.

"Won't fetch you much I can guarantee you that,"

"That's for your boss to decide is it not?"

Gustav smirks and whirls around with a pistol in his hand, sunlight glints off the muzzle pointed his way as the man cocks the hammer of his weapon. Athos knows that he would be dead before his blow completely falls and that would only leave his friend tied up amidst the other four men. Still he keeps his sword steady against the man's throat.

"Tell me Comte, why are you not taking this spy to the King?" Gustav asks.

"He won't pay me as well as this deal would,"

"So you don't care what happens to the King of France?"

"Riches are riches regardless of who sits on the throne,"

"A man of no loyalty eh?"

And isn't that the question he'd been searching for his entire life, looking for who is worthy of his loyalty, his title or his love, the law or his wife, the King or his friend? Athos muses he is after all a man shredded by the cost of loyalty.

"Yes," he says, "it's an easy life that way,"

"I could end you now and take the spy," Gustav raises a brow and lowers his pistol, "but then that would send a bad impression to others reaching out to us,"

Athos pulls his rapier away but keeps it in hand.

He doesn't say a word as Gustav steps again towards Aramis and hauls him up by his hair. The defiance is clear in the eyes that meet his and Athos can only bite back a frustrated sigh as his friend spits on his captor. This time it's the man on his right who lands a fist to his side.

Gustav wipes the spit from his face with a sleeve and tugs at Aramis' hair to bring his face up again.

"I hope the Master of the House finds you useless," the leer on his face is of abject superiority, "I will enjoy watching you struggle in the vetting."

He steps back and looks to the beady eyed man on Aramis' right.

"Get his shoes off Benoit; we wouldn't want him running off,"

It's a struggle.

Or rather an attempt at it.

Athos keeps the rope as slack as he can without appearing fazed by the sight of four men pinning his friend to the ground. It goes against every instinct that is screaming at him to move and help the man, instincts that he had buried with his brother years ago but are somehow always sharper in the presence of Aramis.

Gustav nods at the man who ends up holding Aramis' boots and orders him to get their horses. He turns then to the remaining three and orders them to secure the bindings of their prisoner. It is when the man himself reaches for the other end of the rope that is tethered to Aramis that Athos raises a brow. His grip tightens on the rope end and he keeps his face blank, not showing the fear of having this connection severed.

"I'd rather not," he says.

"We'd be moving quickly, you think you'd be able to make him keep up?"

"He stays with me," there is an edge in his words and finality in his gaze.

Gustav backs away.

* * *

Athos grits his teeth as the rope pulled behind him jerks yet again and he tugs softly at the rein of his horse to slow it down imperceptibly. It isn't enough but it will have to do he tells himself and dares not glance back at his friend. They have been following a dirt trail through the forest and Gustav had kept his word about their speed, the pace they have been at for hours now isn't a gallop but it isn't a trot either. And he refuses to acknowledge the trouble it has been giving Aramis.

He offers a silent prayer of thanks when Gustav slows his ride to a stop. Their small company follows his lead and the stifling air is filled the heavy breathing of horses and the one man who had had to keep up with them. Gustav smirks at Athos and takes a mouthful of water from his canteen; shifting in his saddle he grins at the man tied to Athos's horse.

"We'll let the horses rest an hour or two; our next stop with be the house," he says.

"Vargas will meet us there?" Athos forces that crawling gaze back on himself.

"Not Vargas, but the Master would be waiting,"

Athos orders his heart to calm down at the news, all that they had endured up till now would be lost if he let his emotions rule him. Regardless the desire to wipe that face clean of that smug look simmers under his skin.

"The Master?"

"To see if your man is worth Vargas' time,"

They had not accounted for this but now is hardly the time that they can back out. Athos acknowledges the words with a sharp nod and dismounts. He looks to Aramis who is bent forwards to catch his breath and reaches for one of the canteens in his saddle bag. Opening it he offers the container to his friend who straightens painfully and reaches for it with his bound hands.

Athos tells himself he did not see the pale, sweat slicked skin nor the tremble in the stretching fingers.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I don't answer to you Gutsav," he turns to the man with that pride he had perfected for years in his father's stead.

That is not the man he wishes ever to emulate but at the moment it works, as Aramis gulps down water Gustav turns away with a derisive snort. Athos pretends he does not hear the cough that breaks out behind him as his friend inevitably swallows the water wrong way in his haste.

His hands itch to turn back around and soothe away the throat tearing sound.

Instead he curls them into fists as he turns and snatches the canteen away from Aramis.

"Idiot," he snaps.

Aramis still coughs but there's a flash of smirk that's only visible at the distance they hold. And then he snarls something unflattering about Athos' parentage before he plops down onto his rear, drawing up his shaking knees slightly and dropping his chin to his chest he just breathes. The sun has ended its journey across the sky and the blue above dulls and deepens gradually. Athos extracts his own canteen for a drink and eyes the men watching his every move. This clearing isn't as wide as the previous one but a nit more airy, since the trees had been growing further and further apart for a while now.

Athos glances down at his friend and stowing away his canteen he moves closer to the man, close enough to kick him lightly in the leg.

"Get up,"

"Go to hell,"

"I'm already there," and Athos didn't have to pretend for at least this to sound believable.

He grabs the back of his friend's sweat soaked shirt and hauls him up, if his grip remains as a grounding force in the face of the man's swaying, no one is wiser. Athos grabs the reins of his horse and leads them both to the nearest tree line, hoping that the area would be cooler. If the way Aramis sighs as he plops down again, it seems to work.

"Aren't you the considerate sort?"

Athos freezes, feels the muscles in his back go rigid but he keeps his face blank as he looks to Benoit and the heavy man beside him, it's the latter who had spoken.

"Yves here is worried," Benoit grins.

"See first you give him water then you bring him to shade," Yves is not so subtle in gripping his pistol, "I'm starting to think you care,"

"I care not to stand around holding his rope,"

Athos ties it to the tree and steps back. One hand coming to rest on the hilt of his rapier as he looks past the two men at Gustav making his way to them. The leader frowns at Athos and then at his men, as if unsure who he dislikes more.

"If you ladies are done with your tea party there are horses that need taken care of," he says.

"What do you know about this Comte and his spy?" Yves turns to him.

"You're questioning our orders?"

"I'm sick of the orders that tell us nothing about the people we're escorting,"

"Well that's the way it is," Gustav is griping the hilt of the rapier in his belt, "you have a problem you take it to the Master,"

Athos is not prepared for the glare that Yves levels at him. He locks his knees just in time as the man reaches with a meaty hand and grabbing him by the collar of his doublet he brings them nose to nose.

"I've been watching you Comte," he snarls, "or are you going to tell me you didn't slow down back there time and again to keep from dragging this man behind your horse?"

"What I am going to tell you is that the heat is affecting your sight," Athos raises an unimpressed eyebrow, "or more likely your head."

The derisive snort from behind him is a surprise.

"You got something to say?" Benoit snaps at Aramis.

He is sitting with his back to the narrow tree bark, sweat drenched and still a bit breathless though Athos supposes it's from the beating earlier than the exhaustion. And yet with an arm on his knee he had pulled up, the man gives an air of indolent arrogance when he looks at them.

"Go ahead and kill the man if you will, but don't accuse the Comte of caring," he says.

Yves shoves Athos aside and glares past him at their prisoner.

"And of course you would know all about it?" he sneers.

"I'm a spy," Aramis looks offended, "it's my job to know my target,"

"You're saying you were sent to spy on this Comte?" Gustav jerks a thumb towards Athos, "why?"

And Athos will like to know that too; because this was not part of the plan that the Captain had set up for them, it was not from the information they had learned to make a story for this mission. He carefully keeps the shock from his face and studies his friend for any clue as to where this is going.

"You may be ready to betray your King but I'm still loyal to mine," Aramis rolls his eyes and leans back, looking for all the world like he's lounging in a palace, "but I can tell you this, the Comte here is a heartless bastard who feels nothing,"

And that hurts to hear.

But Aramis it seems isn't done.

"He's selfish and the only thing he cares about is his own whim," he says and smirks at the four men, "how do you think he lost his riches? Sent the family name and property down the drain,"

Athos flinches.

Aramis looks at him directly in the eye, his gaze hard and a vicious smile on his face.

"His brother died paying for his mistakes,"

Athos' eyes close against the abrupt sharp pain between his ribs.

"And our Comte here ordered his own wife to be hung to her death just b –"

His words are cut short the thick sound of knuckles connecting a jaw. The anger so near the surface these days bursts to the fore and Athos pulls the man close with the scruff of his shirt and delivers another blow to his face. Red haze fills his mind because how dare he? How dare this man drag out the demons of his past that Athos had shared in trust? After all they had been through, after all the secrets he had kept for him how dare Aramis twist the knife Athos had shown him embedded in his back?

His fist rises again – pauses at the smile on bloodstained lips.

And he sees honest regret at its core.

The lull ends when he feels a hand on his pistol at his side and Athos reaches for it seconds later Aramis draws it out. They stumble back from each other and blue eyes meet brown. Aramis raises the pistol to Athos' face and takes aim. Athos hears the air cut in a whistle above his shoulder as the ball flies past.

Yves falls dead behind him.

Benoit launches at Aramis.

But Gustav gets there first.

Hauls their prisoner up by his throat and rams him back against the tree.

"Now that was a stupid move," Gustav's grip has Aramis chocking, he glances back at Benoit who is held back by his other two companions, "Oh shut it, the man had been looking to get shot for a while now,"

But his fingers remain clenched around Aramis' throat.

Athos flinches when Benoit growls for revenge.

"You've made him mad," Gustav says to Aramis, "and you're still at our mercy. So what does this get you?"

Red stained teeth bare in a grin.

"I just like to keep things suicidal," Aramis gasps.

Athos blinks.

Oh.

His mind is stuck somewhere between reckless plans executed on the border of France and promises to a widowed mother of a King born in secret. He fails to register the next minutes as realization hits him in waves. When he finally forces his attention back it is to the sight of seething Benoit as Gustav lets Aramis slump to the ground.

The ragged breaths between painful coughs grate against his nerves and he refuses to glance at his friend.

"I will kill him!"

"Shut up Benoit."

"I –"

"Will you be the one explaining to the Master of the House as to why we are short of the spy we were sent to collect?" Gustav asks.

"He –"

"You don't want to be the one bound up in the vetting do you?" Gustav's smile is sickly sweet, "You know I can make it happen," he adds.

Benoit grits his teeth and glares at the man sagged against the tree.

"But I suppose a punishment is in order," Gustav looks to Athos.

The grin on his face is enough to cast a shudder down Athos' spine and it takes an effort to not let it show to the man. Instead Athos raises a brow and the leader of Vargas' agents rubs his hands together, his grin widening.

"Well Benoit and Yves were in the army together," he says, "so a soldier's punishment? A lesson to remember should he attempt to escape again,"

"That was not an attempt to escape," Athos says and instantly understands his mistake.

He can feel the glare Aramis sends his way and it is not needed. Athos wishes he had simply knocked the man out when he had the chance as he nods his acceptance of Gustav's words.

And ignores the churning in his gut.

Clamps down on the bells tolling in his mind.

Tells himself it's what is needed of them.

Gustav nods at the two men who had let go of Benoit and they do his bidding without a word. Athos numbly observes the way they refuse to look at their leader in the face and a vague thought forms as to what the man is holding over them; but the fear curling around his lungs whisks it away as he watches the two men drag Aramis up to his feet.

Aramis spews curses in Spanish at the manhandling.

The fear coils tighter in Athos' chest.

He blinks and they have his friend facing the narrow tree bark, the rope is wound around it tighter to keep the bound hands pressed against the rough wood. Aramis is struggling; pulling against the rope holding him in place against the tree. He is trying to twist his hands free but the bindings around his writs only dig further into his skin. Crimson flecks spotting the shirt sleeves and rope alike.

Gustav steps forward and in a single swipe cuts through the back of Aramis' shirt from collar to hem.

Aramis' head swings to look back.

His eyes find Athos' and there is a battle ground stretched between them.

Fear and hope warring for dominance as his friend looks to him with a quiet demand.

Athos knows what he is asking of him, what he is begging him for but it is something that he cannot do.

He cannot do this to the bloody idiot he had worked so hard to keep alive.

The one he had betrayed his King for.

And then there is resignation in the brown eyes before Aramis looks away.

Athos glances at Benoit who has his belt in his hand.

"I'll do it," he bites out.

"What?"

"If anyone is going to do this it'll be me," and Athos is ready to spill blood for this.

He wants them to deny him this just so that he can tell the Captain that he had a valid reason to shut down the mission and leave behind the cooling bodies of these men. But then Gustav grins even wider and snatching the belt from Benoit gives it to Athos.

There is a shiver in his legs as he steps into position; his palm is slick with sweat and he clenches his fist tighter onto the buckle and the leather in his grasp. Locks his knees and stands firm. He cannot afford to slip up, had seen his father enough times when he dealt punishment to the house staff. Remembers the words he had tried to forget, the lessons and tricks imparted he had never wanted to witness.

He pulls his arm back, feels the leather sing through the air in the second before it hits the mark.

First strike

Second

Third

Fourth

Fifth

He tells himself it makes sense that he should do it.

Can see the wisdom of Aramis' silent request although he knows that his friend has no idea about Athos' this particular skill set. It is the trust he realizes; the one his friend has in him to know how far will be far enough in this case. To make the damage convincing yet not permanent.

Twelfth

Thirteenth

Fourteenth

So Athos makes himself believe that it is a good thing he is doing this.

He knows how to bring pain without a lasting damage.

And he needs to prove to these men that he indeed does not care for this spy.

Twenty three

Twenty four

His shoulder burns, sweat breaks out on his forehead and down his back. The world is at a halt, and the only motion is the arc of the leather the only sound is of it cutting through the stagnant air. Athos looses track of time and counts, tamps down on the guilt and the horror of it.

He stops only when his chest is too tight to pull in a breath.

Athos blinks away the sweat from his gaze.

Refuses to acknowledge the wetness on his face is anything else.

Wipes at his eyes when the burning doesn't stop and stares ahead.

Aramis hadn't moved, not an inch it seems but now he appears to be leaning against the tree instead of pulling away from it. His head is bent, resting on his bound fists and in the last glow of the evening his back is a canvas of dark welts, many of them weeping red. Not an inch of skin is spared and Athos finds it a hollow achievement that he had managed to keep the muscles intact in his friend's back.

It is then that he notes there is silence about him. Aramis has made no sound during it all and Athos is torn between being thankful and horrified.

He throws away the belt that's slick with blood more than halfway up the leather and turns his back on the scene, does not see his friend's knees give way, his head coming to rest on his forearms. No one else moves as Athos walks away, across the small clearing and back the way they had come. He crosses into the dark shadows of the trees, thicker now for the waning evening and he moves blindly over the dirt trail.

Trips over his own feet; and lands on his hands and knees.

A shudder racks through him as his mouth sours.

Athos coughs and shivers and throws up.

There is nothing but bile and his stomach spasms, muscles cramping and bunching as his guts try to tear themselves apart. He groans and breaths through his nose, trying his best to stave off another round of dry heaving. Swallowing thickly he leans back to sit on his haunches and lets his chin drop to his chest. Closing his eyes Athos just breathes, waits for his erratic heartbeat to slow down. His hands clenched into fists over his knees take some time to ease open and for a while Athos simply stares at them.

With a shudder he wipes them on his breeches.

The move frantic and harsh.

But when the guilt still lingers on his skin he tells himself it's just his imagination.

One he will revisit in the isolation of his room with at least three bottles of wine for company.

Aramis' words from earlier ring clear in his head as he gathers himself up and dusts off his clothes. Athos wipes a hand over his face and pulls in a calming breath before he makes his way back to the clearing, caught off guard by the night that had set in.

Benoit is sitting by Yves body that is now laid out in the clearing. Athos is surprised by the way the man is stripping his dead friend of his valuables. In the pale light of the moon there is a feverish touch to his movements as he goes through the pockets and shoves whatever he finds into his own. Pulling his gaze away from that he looks to where the other two men are tending to the horses and finds Gustav among them. The man is perched on a low tree branch and drinking wine; the dark glass of the bottle glints in the moonlight as he takes a swig and kicks at the nearest man in his range. The other man stumbles before resuming his task.

Athos walks over to his own horse that they had collected to keep with the others and pulls out a canteen from his saddle bag. Ignoring Gustav's sneer he turns and moves on to where he had last seen Aramis.

The sound of shallow breathing in the relative darkness is the first thing that registers.

It takes a second for Athos' sight to adjust to the moonlight filtering through the leaves above.

His friend is still tied up.

A shoulder pressed against the tree and the side of his head tipped against the rough bark. The silver light trickling down casts his face into a sick pallor and pools shadows under his closed eyes. Athos reaches out to lay a hand on the side of his friend's face.

The skin is unexpectedly cool under his touch.

Dark eyes flutter open, appearing wide and black in the night. But the faraway gaze is blank, too reminiscent of the man haunted by an entire company of men lost in a snowy forest. Something clenches in his chest and Athos swipes the pad of his thumb under his friend's eye; feels ridiculously grateful when he is rewarded with the hazy eyes flicking down to look at his face.

" 'Mis?" it's barely a whisper.

But the gaze sharpens instantly.

For a second there are no defenses against the tempest of emotions in his eyes and Athos fears that this is where they will lose the mission; that his friend would cost them their cover as the storm that had been brewing in him for months now will finally make landfall.

But that's not what sends cold tendrils of fear creeping over Athos' heart.

It's what he sees would be left in the wake of it.

The destruction this storm will wreak.

And Athos is not ready to face these cold winds of change.

He pulls back his hand, does not miss the flinch in his friend at the loss of contact. Wraps his denial snug around his shoulders and offer the man water, ignores the way the usually steady grip trembles, the way his friend winces at every small movement.

"You alright?" Aramis' voice is pitched low and steady.

He nods curtly.

Anger surprises him by rearing its head back up and Athos tries to shove it back from wherever it's coming from, he's not ready to face it yet. Quietly he takes back the canteen Aramis extends and refuses to look his friend in the eye.

"I'm sorry," Aramis says.

"I trusted you," he snaps.

And this is neither the time nor place for this.

"I know,"

"I told you all those things and you –" Athos really does not want to do this right now, they have to be quiet and yet the words burst forth in a whisper, "you betrayed me,"

He cannot stop it from coming out.

This hurt from where his anger stems.

Because yes it was needed; and yes it had worked. But that didn't change the fact that the man had taken what was trusted to him and twisted it perfectly to get the reaction he had wanted out of him. Athos hates that of all the people this man had manipulated him. Hit every raw nerve with precision; deliberately.

"I'm sorry," Aramis says.

"So am I," the words taste bitter on his tongue.

* * *

When he tells them that their prisoner will be taking Yves horse, unsurprisingly it is Benoit who objects the most. What does surprise Athos though is the claim he lays.

"It's my horse," he snarls, "Everything that Yves owned is mine now. That spy has already robbed me of a chance to reclaim my debts. Five years! Yves still owed me five years of pay. All the time spent at his heels, making sure he pays and you destroyed it!"

He jabs a finger in Aramis' direction.

"I will not let him near anymore of my investment!"

Athos wishes he hadn't heard that, wishes that he had been left to believe the presumptions he had built. His grip on Aramis' arm tightens when the man trembles lightly where he is standing beside him.

"I will not see this man dead before Vargas can pay me for him," Athos says.

"The Comte is right," Gustav motions for the horse to be brought over, "the spy gets to ride the horse."

Benoit spits near the man's shoes and walks away, cursing under his breath. Athos leads Aramis to the horse, ignores the rope in favor of steadying the man as he pulls himself up in the saddle and in the whitewashed light Athos helps his friend's bare feet find the stirrups. The man sways where he sits, clenches his eyes shut and Athos watches his throat bob as he swallows a few times.

Athos clasps Aramis' knee and squeezes. Feels the shift under his hand as his friend gathers back his control before he nods. Athos swings up on his own horse, lets the rope tethering Aramis lie slack over his shoulder and uses instead the reins of the horse to keep the man close as they move on.

Soon the trees are left behind as the dirt path grows wider and Athos realizes that the shapes around them are houses, thrown into darkness in the quiet of the night. He follows Gustav's lead and stops when they hear the heave and creak of a carriage; watches with a sliver of interest as the coach rides past them with a pair of horses in front and behind.

Athos frowns.

He has a feeling he had seen this carriage before.

"The Master is home," Gustav says, "good timing too,"

They follow the small procession into the settlement that is too quiet. Doors and windows sealed shut against night and no glow of hearth or candle seeps through the edges. They follow the carriage through the gates and onto the curved pathway of the mansion up ahead. At least here the lanterns are lit and the house staff still awake.

Athos pulls his horse to a stop as Gustav dismounts and getting down himself he turns to help Aramis. By the scowl he receives it's clear the act is not appreciated. So as his friend stumbles down to his feet they turn as one to watch the Master step out of the carriage. Dressed in a long dark material that shimmers in the moonlight stands the woman. Her eyes grow wide in surprise before a smile breaks onto her face.

"Well Monsieur Aramis, it seems like you cannot keep Monsieur Athos safe from me after all," Lady Solange says.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **THANK YOU every one who read, followed, favorite and reviewed. I had not expected such a warm response for this story – you all are amazingly kind, thank you!**

 **And the guest reviewers I cannot personally thank – thank you UKGuest and Brewan for leaving me your thoughts!**


	3. Chapter 3

**WARNING : A touch of Mature theme, Violence and Blood.**

* * *

It takes minutes. Precious minutes in which his horse is already led away to the stables and Gustav and his men spread out around them in a circle; minutes that his mind takes to catch up with his eyes – and then his ears. Athos looks from Lady Solange to the wide eyed man standing beside him.

"What is she talking about?"

Aramis' does not look his way, instead he stares at the woman and his eyes narrow slightly, face setting in a grim visage in the flickering glow of the lanterns.

"Did he not tell you?" Lady Solange smiles, "I thought he would have already revealed my intentions when I woke up to find my chambers empty."

She steps closer to them and reaches out to caress Aramis' face with her fingers, her smile gleaming like snake skin, gaze just as cold. Her nails scratch against the stubble on his cheek, dig into his skin as she jerks his head down for a kiss.

Aramis stands rigid.

Athos pulls out his rapier an inch before Gustav's blade rests on the back of his wrist, drawing a trickle of blood. Ignoring the sting he turns his gaze back to his friend who seemed to have stopped breathing, his hands still bound before him are clenched into white knuckled fists even after Lady Solange pulls away. She pats his cheek and steps back grinning; Athos can hear the exhale Aramis lets go slowly through his nose.

"Aramis here wasn't my mark you see, but fate had intervened and I thought it foolish to miss a chance like that. But he wasn't willing at first," Lady Solange says, "was very stubborn about it too," slim shoulders rise in an elegant shrug, "it's insulting you know and in my indignation I let slip that it had been Athos I had wished His Majesty had called forth anyway. I had to order him to get me the Musketeer I wanted,"

Athos cannot keep back the wince.

There is a crawling on his skin like he is being invaded by an army of ants; he wonders if his friend is feeling the same and lets his gaze drift that way again. The man beside him stands straight and stiff, jaws clenched tight as his eyes keep track of the woman who strolls up to stand beside Gustav.

"Imagine my surprise when Aramis returned to my chambers alone and I found him eavesdropping no less," she smiles and her fingers rise to touch her own lips, "he kept me from raising alarm," she winked at the man in question, "all night he kept me from executing my plan,"

Bile is burning at the back of his throat and Athos isn't sure he will not throw up should he try to say something. He cannot look at his friend as the events from the night before play out in a different light in his mind; it had been him the Lady had been studying, it had been him she had been staring at and he had assumed –

Athos shakes his head.

Swallows back the thick burning in his throat and forces words past his lips.

"What did you want from me?"

A part him does not want to know the answer to that, wishes fervently that she would refuse to comply.

"To destroy your reputation of course, make you lose your commission, send you to the Châtelet if things went good, the noose if they went very good. His Majesty after all had been too kind to me during my stay;" she says, "I was told you would never appreciate my overtures so the plan was to simply bring you in my chambers and the rest –" her smile stretches into a grin, "Who do you think the King would have believed? There was a reason you were one of the two Musketeers assigned for my safety to begin with."

"Why?" it's an honest question.

"I owed someone a favor and he wanted me to destroy you," Lady Solange smooths the creases from her dress, "a man in a favored position by His Majesty harbouring familial jealousy and the likes; I stopped listening to his whining after I got the gist of it,"

"Rochefort," the name comes to him like the curse the man himself is.

"Precisely; he won't be happy that I failed, but I got a good price for my silence," she smiles, eyes roaming over his friend before flicking back to him, "and now I have you at my mercy all the same,"

She takes the pistol from Gustav's belt as she smirks and steps away from the man; raises the weapon to level it to Athos' chest.

"He'll be indebted to me the remaining of his miserable life for this," she says.

His grip tightens on the hilt of his rapier, stance poised for a shift as the woman pulls back the hammer and Athos moves. A pistol shot cracks the air as Athos steps around nearer to Gustav grabs his arm bearing the weapon and slams it back into the man on his side; elbows him in the chest as his own blade slides out to parry with the man rushing towards him.

The sound of scuffle is thick and short.

Ending with well placed hit to his gut from Gustav that leaves Athos breathless.

He bites back a gasp as the man forces him straight immediately, only to land a hit to his face.

"Stop playing with him Gustav," Lady Solange's voice filters through to him.

Athos blinks and kicks out and earns another hit to his stomach.

When his breath returns again it is to find himself on his knees with the muzzle of a pistol pressed to the side of his head.

"Wait," Aramis speaks for the first time since they've arrived.

Athos lifts his head up against the pull on his shoulders where his arms are yanked up and behind him. He squints at the man pinned on his back to the ground by Benoit's boot on his chest, but it's neither the weight of the man nor the blade on his neck that keeps Aramis in place, Athos knows it's the damage he had brought to his back that has made his friend so helpless.

"Why just kill us off like this?" Aramis asks.

"You have something else in mind?"

Athos shivers at the woman's words.

"The vetting," Aramis is not looking at him, he's staring up at the woman by his head, "what better chance to get rid of the weak from your ranks then by pitting them against the King's elite guards fighting for their lives?"

"And if you live through that?"

"I'm sure you'll have more men ready to take us on,"

And Athos can hear the charming grin in his voice, holds his breath as the silence stretches until the lady finally looks back at the man holding him captive.

"Lock them up Gustav and make arrangements for a vetting,"

* * *

The cool smell of earth is heavy in the darkness.

The single lantern in the hand of one of the men escorting them seems too scared to throw its light any further than the man holding it.

The creak of thick hinges is the only warning before they are shoved into a small cell. Athos lands on his side and rolls onto his back with a hiss; fiery pain radiates from his upper arm, throbs down to his fingers and up to his neck. As their captors leave with the only source of light Athos can feel the blackness curling around him, can sense it blanketing his mind and laying heavy on his chest.

Until there is a dull sting of fingers digging in his shirtfront and the weight on his chest shifts into a hold that pulls him to sit up.

The slap to his smarting jaw leaves him hissing again.

But the sharp pain is enough to keep him sitting up even when the grip recedes. And in the dull glow of the moonlight, seeping in through the bars of a narrow window high on the wall, his gaze settles on Aramis. His friend who is busy tearing up whatever had been left of his shirt and Athos frowns.

But the man pays him no mind as he manages a decent size strip and examines it in what little light they have. Athos growls when his friend jostles his arm and the dark eyes look to him in an unimpressed stare before turning his arm into the pale glow. When the man carefully eases out his arm from the doublet Athos' vision wavers, the throb turns into a hot dagger cutting into his flesh. Pursing his lips he tries to keep a control on his breathing as the sound of his shirt sleeve ripping echoes in their prison.

Aramis is frowning and murmuring to himself.

Athos groans and tries to clutch at the exposed wound.

Glares at his friend when the man promptly slaps away his good hand.

"I think it'll rain tonight," Aramis says, "I can smell it in the air ever since the sunset. I bet people would come out in the streets to enjoy it, Porthos and d'Artagnan sure will…"

Athos tries to focus on the aimless chatter yet he cannot stop the wince when the bandage around his arm is pulled snug. But his friend continues talking as he presses close the wound that had bled down to his hand without him even knowing, he stares rather mesmerized by the dark stains between his fingers.

"The ball took a piece of flesh with it and it's bled quite a lot," Aramis says, "wish we at least had some water to clean it with,"

Athos looks up from the hand in his lap and stares at the side of the face leaning close to examine the makeshift bandage on his arm. The sting is there but he likes to believe that the bleeding had slowed. His friend still doesn't look convinced as he reaches out and lays a hand on it, evidently trying to feel if the cloth gets soaked through too quickly.

"Did you know?" Athos asks.

Aramis eyes slant in a glare towards him.

"If had known do you think I would have gone through all that I did getting here?"

He adjusts the knot on the bandage and sits back on his knees, one blood stained hand rising to draw through his hair but stopping short abruptly. Athos watches it descend slowly. The rope is still there around Aramis' wrist, it seems their captors had simply cut through the bindings and his friend hadn't pulled it off yet.

"I knew she was working with Rochefort but not that she was working for Vargas too,"

"You saw her with Rochefort?"

"Heard them talking," Aramis says, "I was at the door, went there to tell her that Athos has taken ill and gone back to the garrison. Before I could leave though, Rochefort opened the door. He didn't suspect a thing; I mean what's a lowly Musketeer to have an opinion about the nobles' nightly activities he accidently stumbles upon. I was backtracking as he left but that's when she said she would raise the alarm right then; and tell the King I was sent there by Athos to bring her back to you."

"So you decided to stop her by spending the night with her?" his voice is pitched with incredulity.

"Yes Athos I made a deal; I thought it was a price I could pay to keep her quiet for the night until we could get safely away from her in the morning," Aramis snapped at him.

"You could have told me,"

"She was ready to scream bloody murder in the corridor,"

"The Captain would have believed us,"

"His words against Rochefort's?"

"Everyone knows I'm the drunkard not the –" he stops short, eyes widening.

"– the libertine? Oh no that's Aramis and wasn't he with you that night too?" Aramis shakes his head and slowly, warily eases himself to sit back on his rear.

His smirk holds too much guilt when he looks to Athos again.

"Being around me doesn't make you safer my friend," Aramis says.

"It does if there isn't a skirt around,"

Aramis winces.

Out loud his words do not sound as the reassurance they were meant to and Athos wonders if the two of them will ever find a way to talk again without cutting each other where the raw spots are. His heart sinks as the guilt on his friend's face seeps into acquiescence.

"There may be other ways that you can come up with and tell me that what I did was wrong but contrary to the general belief, I don't readily whore myself out,"

Athos flinches.

He remembers the church, the plaque; remembers the pain behind the anger and the remorse behind the words. He had warned his friend about taking up the Cardinal's mistress but he had wanted nothing more than to drag the man out of the afterlife for retribution of the agony he caused his friend in that moment.

"I may not understand it but I know you love the women you bed," his voice is quiet.

"In that moment I do love them and we know those moments for what they are. Fleeting but treasured. I'd never – it's never been something – the benefit's always been mutual. Until now with Marguerite –" a chuckle that's anything but merry echoes in the cell, "and now this."

Aramis pulls up a knee and leans forward against it, one arm curling loosely about it.

"Let it never be said that I drew a line where my loved ones were concerned. I did every wrong thing for the right reasons,"

"That still does not make it right,"

"I know,"

Aramis' shrug stops midway.

The bruises are visible now that the remains of his shirt are gone, dark patches stain his chest and sides low on his stomach. The stiff posture screams silently of the pain that Athos had brought upon him and the memory surfaces like bile from his gut. He reminds himself that it was needed, then; but now it seems like it was all in vain and that sickens him further.

He breathes through his nose as his good hand moves reflexively to the strip of cloth around the wound on his arm.

"Your back," he starts,

"Already covered in dust and grime and likely more than halfway to infection by now," Aramis sounds exhausted, his eyes are closed in a clear attempt to gather his strength, his next words are quiet, "let it be Athos."

And it is not just a request against asking about his wounds.

Aramis is visibly pulling into himself and Athos realizes that it isn't the first time he had witnessed it. In the past months there have been moments of retreat when Athos' words had cut deep, gestures lost halfway when his glares had been too sharp, evenings of excuses and absences when Aramis hadn't joined them after missions.

The grief of inexplicable loss hits him too strong even with the man sitting before him. And Athos realizes suddenly that the man is only in his breeches, with not even boots on his feet. The sight plucks at some invisible thread pulled taut in Athos' chest and he finds himself moving without thinking. Pulling off his doublet is not that hard with his injured arm already free. Shifting up onto his knees Athos reaches out and drapes his doublet over his friend's bent shoulders.

The surprise in the eyes that open at the gesture floors him.

Athos cannot believe they have fallen this far apart.

That his friend would look this shocked at an act of kindness from him.

His hands fall away from the collar of the doublet and clench into fists by his side.

And yet he can feel like he's trying to hold a snowflake that has already melted.

It is slipping through his fingers no matter how hard he holds onto to it.

Not looking his friend in the eyes Athos gets back to his feet, looks up at the barred window that is too high and too narrow then back at the thick bars closing them in this prison. He walks the length of it; head tilted to catch the distant sounds filtering in from the grounds above them as his palm traces the wall. His hand dips into a hollow and he can feel about half a candle in there, searching fingers wrap around too small pieces of what Athos assumes are flints. The discovery lifts his spirits a little and he turns to regard his friend. The light from the window dims and darkens, the shadows breathe; swell up before the light blunts their corners again.

Aramis does not move.

"The vetting?" Athos asks.

"Made sense," Aramis says without turning around, "it's something brutal enough to be a threat sufficient to get Benoit to back down,"

"Of course that means we should partake in it," the lighter tone comes surprisingly easy.

"Think of the tales you could weave out of this one,"

"So we get out there and fight to stay alive and…?"

"And we wait for Thierry to get to the Captain,"

Athos frowns.

He moves back to sit before his friend and looks pointedly in his face for any sign of a harder hit to the head he must have missed. Because the man seems to be implying that the Captain had an idea of Lady Solange's loyalties and sent a Musketeer to keep an on her.

Aramis rolls his eyes at the skeptical look and the familiar smirk that appears on his face warms something in Athos.

"I told the Captain about her in the morning," Aramis says, "she was supposed to depart at night but when she left after breakfast Treville thought the matter needed to be looked into,"

"He sent Thierry to spy on her," Athos nods.

His mind works out the timeline, they have traveled through the woods and saved themselves hours but Lady Solange had taken the road and it had taken her nearly a day to get here. If Thierry is taking the same route that means they will need to stay alive for at least next two days before they can hope for a rescue.

Athos looks to Aramis again.

Unimpressed.

"Better than being dead immediately," his friend reasons.

"Your positivity is enticing,"

His dry voice cannot completely hide the exasperation.

Aramis grins.

"Where's your sense of adventure?"

"Locked up in a dry well whenever you're around," Athos rubs the back of his aching neck, "you're enough to pull us both into trouble,"

"That I am,"

There's no arrogance in the words, no smug delight nor a hint of mischief. Just guilt and acceptance that Athos finds chilling to his very bones. It's like the quiet cool breeze before the gale blows in and once again he finds himself on the precipice of asking, of voicing what is so loudly unspoken between them, but he cannot – will not.

He will not pull the thread that would unravel everything.

Athos is not ready for that.

He is almost glad when the sound of footfalls in the darkness beyond reaches them. And they get to their feet without a word. Athos ignores the wincing of his friend when he helps him into the doublet, before they face the low door of their prison together.

The men come bearing chains. Lock the manacles on their ends on a wrist and an ankle on each of them, linking them so that neither of the two can move more than three short steps from the other, nor can they extend an arm fully without cutting the other's range to half.

Their eyes seek the each others.

And promise to make this an advantage not a weakness.

* * *

The circle of loose earth amidst the stone courtyard is lined with torches, their flames licking the night sky and bathing everything in a simmering glow. Eyes curious and vicious follow them as they are led into the circle; faces grim and malicious surround them when they stop. Standing in the ring of high torches without a single weapon Athos had never felt this vulnerable.

His hand grips the chain extending from the manacle on his wrist, there's no need to glance aside to know his friend is doing the same on his end, the shift in the chain is proof enough and feeling grounded for the presence at his side his gaze remains steady on the thin crowd as it shifts.

Lady Solange appears on top of the steps leading down to the courtyard. There is a high backed chair there in which she sits and Gustav comes to stand beside her. Benoit is at the foot of the stairs, deep set eyes glinting in the light of the torches.

There's a dull clang of metal and Athos looks down at the weapons someone had tossed before them. He picks them up keeping in mind not to jerk his friend down with him and offers the man a set of sword and parrying dagger. Feels his own nerves settle a bit with the familiar weight of weapons in his hands.

"Still think we can make it?" he asks.

Eyes not straying from the threat surrounding them.

"Armed and alert; I've survived in worst conditions," Aramis says.

A gaunt figure in a snowy clearing steeped with death comes to his mind and Athos finds a violent smirk curling at the corner of his lips. Their odds here are indeed better.

"Besides," Aramis looks to him with a grin, "it's you and I, how can we not?"

And he shifts to stand behind Athos as a group of five men step into the circle and waiting for no signal they lunge for the Musketeers. Athos parries left and counter attacks even as he catches another blade in his main gauche and twists it out from him. It narrowly misses his friend at his back just as the man behind sidesteps to let his opponent fall on it. Athos wastes no time in ending the man who is withdrawing from the unintended kill and in a clean swipe he takes out his other opponent in synch with Aramis dropping his own attacker.

The silence rings loud.

Aramis smirks at his side.

Athos finds the corner his own lips tipping up.

Seven more men step in to take them on; Athos fells the first one even as Aramis stabs another. Yet no matter how tight their movements are, how precise the parries and thrusts, Athos still trips over the chain at his feet. Stumbles back even as he dodges a swipe to his middle and finds three blades meeting an inch above his shoulder.

Aramis pushes the two away and half turns to bury his dagger in the nearest man, ducks under a swipe coming for his head even as Athos stops another's blow while digging his heels in for balance. Somewhere there is a rumble of thunder as he fights back to back with his friend and looses himself in the smell of blood and dirt, the deadly intent of his weapons and the wave of attackers that doesn't seem to replenish.

The drizzle is like ice on his skin but Athos knows that is not the reason for the constant shiver in his limbs. He nearly falls on the blade he had parried when Aramis staggers into his back and even as he smashes his elbow in the face of his friend's opponent, Athos realizes they won't last long now. And that's when he sees him, Benoit's dark eyes amidst the snarling faces pressing in for the kill. Athos pushes back the thrust aimed for his chest and leaving his dagger in his enemy's gut he yanks back his friend by the collar of his doublet.

Benoit's blade misses Aramis' throat by a second and the two of them land on the three men behind them.

Athos makes a short work of the ones under him, picks up his sword to cut away the one diving in as his friend takes out the men nearest to him. But there's a drag in his friend's movements that Athos can feel in his own, the prolonged vigilance lays thick on their senses and blunts their reach.

One way or another it will be over soon, Athos thinks.

They are moving too slow and too fast all at once, motions honed over years of experience ride the ebbing rush of the battle and the cuts and bruises he had collected in this melee are now vibrant points of his awareness. The sword is too heavy in his grip and his vision is blurring, the wet earth clings to him as pushes to get his feet under him.

The torches are sputtering.

Fat drops of rain beat down in a torrent and Athos squints, half slipping in softening mud as he dodges the relentless attacks. But the blows and swipes are careless now, the thrust aimed at him going wide. He hears Gustav's voice ordering something over the rumbling of the clouds above. The words are lost as a flash of hilt in the corner of his eye explodes into white spots in his vision. Athos stumbles to the side, boots finding to no grip as he bumps into Aramis and stops with a harsh twist of the chain wrapped around his arm.

His friend tugs him close and takes the oncoming blades onto his own.

The lights are going out in the courtyard.

Gustav is shouting somewhere.

And Athos shakes his head to free his gaze of wet cobwebs, focuses just in time to see Benoit's sword arching towards Aramis' back. There is no conscious thought as he steps up to meet the strike, his own sword coming up too late at this angle.

The blade cuts the breath out him.

Ignites his flesh as it slashes down across his chest.

He is dropping to his knees, taking his friend with him as Benoit steps up to swing his sword down on him. But his strike never falls, Aramis' sword thrusts first. Athos is vaguely aware of it going clean through Benoit's neck, watches wide eyed as the man slumps to his own knees choking on blood. But an arm around his middle pulls him away from the sight.

"Athos? Athos!" Aramis sounds too close to his ear.

His back is against something upright and solid and breathing.

"Look at me Athos!"

He wants to tell his friend to stay alert.

Remind him that they are under attack.

He shivers.

"Keep your eyes open,"

It's a shared sentiment he thinks, wants to say it out loud too.

"Athos open your eyes,"

He has no idea when he closed them.

But his eyelids are too heavy for the effort otherwise.

Besides, it's too dark now out in the courtyard to see anyway.

* * *

The weight on his chest is crushing him. He sucks in a breath and groans, tries to shove at the hands pushing glass shards in his skin. A chocked cry escapes him when the pressure doesn't let up. His head rolls on hard earth and eyes open at half mast.

Bleary darkness greets him.

There is a figure in the blackness looming over him, crushing him under his weight.

"Hold on Athos, I'll fix it just hold on,"

" 'Mis?"

His voice is tight, coiled under the pain blazing in his chest.

"Athos?" Aramis shifts in the darkness, so does the weight against his ribs, "I can't see much but I'll fix it as soon as I can. Just hold on alright?"

There is a clap of thunder and a flash of lightning.

For a second the entire cell is bright.

Athos licks his lips and wonders how or when they got back in here.

" 'ere's a candle in the wall," he murmurs.

His eyes drift close.

The sound of rain bounces off the walls and reverberates in his head. Light burns too bright against his closed eyelids and he winces against the brightness of the candle Aramis had brought close. Athos studies the grim face bent over him through half open eyes, it's the tense clench of the jaw and the deepening crease at the corner of his eyes that give away how worried his friend is of this wound.

Athos would raise his head to examine it too, if his head wasn't so heavy.

But the sticky warmth that still seeps out with every measured breath he takes tells him everything he needs to know.

Athos stares up at the darkness instead.

"That bad?" he asks.

Aramis shakes his head with a snort.

"Trust you to swoon over a simple scratch," he says.

Athos glances back down.

Finds Aramis pulling out a small leather roll that he had apparently sewn inside the belt of his breeches. He unrolls the leather to reveal a spool of thread complete with a shiny needle in it. The slow smile that creeps onto Athos' face is filled with pride.

Aramis prepares the needle and looks to him, dark eyes softening at what he finds looking back at him.

"I would knock you out for this but that with that head wound…"

"Do it,"

And he grits his teeth, clenches his hands into fists by his side and holds back the hiss when the needle pierces his skin, once, twice, in, out, in, the tug burns like lit gun powder on his skin. But it's the moment when the cut edges of his flesh are forced together again that Athos goes rigid, does his best to hold in the scream that gathers at the white hot pain.

"First time I offered to sew Porthos' wound he threatened to break my fingers," Aramis says, stops his sewing and lays his hand flat on Athos' stuttering chest, "we've lost our horses in the middle of nowhere French countryside and the man was ready to walk back to Paris with his leg cut open. You had to come to our rescue for that one remember?"

Athos lets go a breath.

"Which time?"

"It didn't happen _that_ often," Aramis sounds offended and resumes his work, "it was the time you found us in the back of an ox-cart, that spectacular black eye I had? That was Porthos' doing; I had to tackle that stubborn idiot and caught his elbow to my face."

"Serves you right,"

"That's what he told me," Aramis' voice is light, no strain that Athos can see in his eyes, "repeatedly, told me that after every time he kicked me while I was stitching up his leg, kicked me with his bleeding leg I should add. There was nothing to take the edge off, for either of us. How we wished we had brought our travelling cellar."

"Is that supposed to be an allusion to me?"

Aramis winks at him.

"Knew there was an intelligent mind in there,"

Athos snorts, groans and lets his head fall to the side.

There is a puddle by the wall with the window, what little light the candle casts that way shows the stain where the water from above trickles down through the narrow gap. Athos wonders if their captors would seek them out for another round when the rain stops. Lady Solange seems to have gathered an army of mercenaries and it sickens him to remember how close she had been to the King, the Queen and the Dauphin.

Rochefort, he was the one she had been working for and for Vargas too. Flashes of lightening stab the darkness and his sluggish thoughts untangle the simple link, muddles through connecting Rochefort to Vargas.

"…so there I am sitting with Porthos' boot in my hands and supporting a puffy eye when he starts laughing," Aramis was still talking, "I came very close to jabbing the needle in his eye for that."

And Athos can tell he had reached the worst of the cut.

The agony that unfurls from the center of his ribs leaves his fingers digging into the ground; his back threatens to arch right off the floor as the world rocks like a boat thrown on waves. Flashes of concerned eyes, snatches of a calming voice amidst distant thunder tether him to safety and keep him from sinking too far into the depths that lure him with the offer of relief from his pain. He surfaces again at a grounding touch on his forehead.

A thumb swipes between his eyebrows.

Back and forth, back and forth.

The touch is warm and he leans into it, rolling his head to seek out more.

A hazy view shows the candle is nearly a pool of wax.

"Back with me?" Aramis asks.

Lets his fingers card through the damp hair sticking to Athos' skull.

And his eyes close at the soothing motion.

Talking is too much of an effort; cold and tired Athos settles for a nod.

A hiss escapes him when he is suddenly levered up and he swallows thickly to keep a hold on the queasiness skirting the edges of his control. When he pries open his eyes again the flame has reached the end of the wick. He can feel Aramis at his back and relishes in the heat he finds there against the chill that is stealing his senses.

"We'll make it Athos," Aramis murmurs close to his ear, "we'll make it through this,"

The storm still rages outside, the noise drowning out the world as the candle burns its last. Aramis' arm is snug around him, keeping him anchored and his world on an even keel.

"We'll make it," he repeats.

And Athos thinks that after all the lies he had told himself and believed he can accept this blatant lie from his friend as well. It's a solace he is willing to hold onto as he lets the darkness take him.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Just to put it out there this is not a death-fic.**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow and favorite this story. To all who leave me reviews, your words are cherished. Thank you! And Thank you UKGuest, Sara and Guest for leaving me your thoughts!**


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes up with a gasp.

And chokes on it with his eyes clenched shut; stills every inch of his body to abate the pain that lights up in his chest.

The sound of the sky itself cracking above shakes through the walls again and Athos' heart hammers against his ribs even as the sound tapers off into a constant rumble. Biting back a groan he drags in a slow, careful breath and waits for his chest to rip open. Each inhale and exhale is like stoking an inferno in his flesh and all he manages is to find a measure that doesn't leave him in tears every time he breathes.

Everything, from his eyelids to his fingertips feels heavy and it is simply the surprise of that fact that he is actually still breathing that forces his eyes open. A grey world greets him, wrapped in the constant rustle of rain. Athos licks his dry lips, frowns at the thirst that assaults him and his eyes widen as the recent events flash bright to the forefront of his mind.

"Aramis?" he shifts, the doublet draped over him falls in his lap and he braces a hand against his chest, eyes darting around the cell as his clears the rasp in his throat, "Aramis?"

And then he feels it, the severe heat he had been propped up against.

Cursing under his breath Athos presses his hand against the muddy floor, cringing at the squelching under his touch and the throb in his chest he slides himself to sit back against the wall beside his friend. It leaves him breathless and sweating. But even as he wipes his grimy fingers on his breeches he can tell that Aramis is sweating for an entirely different reason.

In the grainy light of the damp morning he can see the flushed face that speaks of fever. Alarm stirs in his heart at the fact that his friend had not noticed him moving out of his grasp; the arm that that had been holding him lays limp as the man sleeps on.

Or he's unconscious, Athos wonders.

"Aramis? Wake up," he calls louder, his tone sharper, "Aramis!"

"ATHOS!"

He's up and on his feet, hand going for the non-existent rapier in his non-existent weapons belt and face turned to the door of their prison. Athos follows at a slower pace, using the wall as support when he gets his feet under him, locks his wobbly knees and braces an arm across his lower ribs.

"I'm here," he says.

Wide dark eyes turn to him, confusion shining clear in their depths. And beyond that is something feral, something borne of that base need to fight back, to protect and if not then avenge; reminding Athos of the too many nights when his friend had awoken in the training yard after wandering out from his room in his sleep, searching for the assailants long vanished in a snowy forest.

"I'm here Aramis," Athos is proud to have kept his voice steady, remembers the words that had soothed those perplex awakenings, "I'm here. You're not alone."

His friend blinks, recognition setting in just as a grimace skitters across his features and Aramis stills.

Sucks in a harsh breath and closes his eyes, wincing against the pain that hits him.

Even in the diluted light of the day that has seeped into their cell Athos can see his friend's deeply bruised back twitch, the spasms roll in the abused muscles, bunching and jumping in protest against the injury, exhaustion and fever. As the blood trickles afresh from the torn skin puffed up under grime, Athos pushes away from the wall, forces his legs to take his weight and shuffles over to his friend.

Reaches out to lay a hand on the side of his neck and squeezes the taut tendons under his grasp. His eyes sting at the sight of quiet tears that slip past his friend's control and guilt rises unchecked as a hard lump in his throat. It was his hand that had brought this damage after all.

If he hadn't done this, if they hadn't taken this mission, if he had listened to what his friend had tried to tell him. Athos shakes his head slowly.

And holds on as the tension under his grip lessens gradually, the trembling becomes more obvious then and Aramis lets his head drop, chin resting on his chest as the sound of his shallow breathing fills their prison. Athos steps closer, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of Aramis' neck as the too hot forehead shifts to thump onto his shoulder and rest there. A shaky hand reaches up to clutch at the torn front of his shirt, tight enough that he feels the tug at the collar digging in his skin.

"You are not alone," Athos repeats, low and soft, "I'm here Aramis,"

And he has no idea who is drawing strength from whom.

Has no idea how long they stand there.

But when they step back they are both steadier for it.

Aramis raises a hand to wipe over his eyes but seems to think better of it. There is too much dried blood there. Athos looks him over for new injuries but only finds cuts and nicks, some having bled more than others. He gives the back of his neck another gentle squeeze before Aramis steps further away.

"I'm fine," he says.

"You're burning up,"

"You were the one that was cleaved open," there is just a touch of smugness there that dissolves into subdued horror, "there was too much blood, it was too close,"

Athos looks down at his chest, the flaky patches of dried blood are surprisingly large on skin and cloth and through it all is the tight line of black stitches that goes down from his right shoulder down to his lower ribs on the left. The sutures surprisingly neat given the lack of light they had.

"This was unexpected," he says.

"This is what usually happens when flesh meets the sharp end of a blade,"

"I meant the thread and needle,"

Aramis shuffles back towards the wall and leans a shoulder against it, Athos has a feeling its more to do with the cooling touch rather than support. The fever bright eyes still look a bit dazed but the smirk on his friend's face is cocky enough.

"Not the first time I had to take up a vulnerable role," he says, "I learn,"

"One should hope so," and Athos winces just as the words slip past his lips.

The weight of the unspoken significance behind them is too heavy to ignore and it's not that Athos means to bring it up in the moment. He cannot believe how everything that he says brings them both back to that one night, that one act, that one decision.

"You'll be happy to know that I do learn, and I do plan ahead," Aramis says, lets the side of his head tip against the wall and stare ahead in the darkness beyond the bars of their prison, "and I have been meaning to put my plan into action as well, it's just – it's just hard –," his gaze slant towards Athos, "harder than I expected,"

A quiver travels down his spine and into his legs, Athos is sure it has nothing to do with the situation they are in and everything to do with what he can feel coming now, right here out in the open. Something that he had realized just yesterday to be building for months now, something that had been too close to the surface ever since this mission began; something that he had been stubbornly in denial of.

"I promised her that I would protect her and the child," Aramis says, "and you're right that I should keep my distance from them, forget what happened and I've tried. I have tried but –" he shakes his head.

And Athos is not ready for this, does not want it made real by virtue of being voiced. But the thread is all wound up around the pole; there is no more space to run in circles. Athos is tempted to press his hands to his ears and hum.

"I've been meaning to ask the Captain for a transfer,"

And there it is.

The truth he did not want to hear.

"To any regiment posted far from Paris," Aramis adds.

Athos refuses to sway where he stands.

Refuses to acknowledge that whatever blood is left in him has drained down to his toes.

He will not show how much it hurts.

"So now you're planning to run away," his voice is cold, words like airborne ice intent to cut, "that's what you've learned? Cowardice?"

Aramis stalks over to him, hands balled into fists by his sides as his eyes narrow dangerously.

"You think I want to leave all this behind? You think I like the decision I've come to?" he bites out, "I'm trying to keep them safe, I'm trying to keep you safe."

We can find another way he wants to tell him. Wants to grasp his shoulders and shake him hard until the man sees that leaving is not an option. But the angry wound that had been festering has been lanced and the venom that seeps into his words is vicious.

"Poor Aramis, always the martyr," Athos arch's a brow, "jumping onto bombs not enough for you is it?"

"Damnit Athos I'm scared alright?" Aramis glares right back at him, "If my actions are exposed it could send all four of us to our deaths," for a second there is raw fear in the brown eyes before him, "her and I – it was our decision and I cannot see her dead for that;" he swallows hard, the wet shine in his gaze is not from the fever, "but the child and you –you two are innocent."

And there is so much concern and guilt in his words that Athos sucks in a breath. Lets it go in a derisive snort, eyes flashing with anger.

"So instead of keeping yourself in check you wish to abandon us?" he snaps, "Is that it?"

"I don't want to," Aramis grounds out, "this brotherhood is all the family I've got,"

Then don't tear it up you bastard growls his heart, but that's not what comes out of his mouth.

"Please stop pretending that it means something to y –"

The fist to his face leaves him reeling.

He hits the bars behind him and holds on to them as his breathing threatens to shred his chest where he stands. Growling exactly like the wounded animal he feels himself to be Athos launches back in a stumbling move propelled by all the anger that had been sealed in him for nearly a year now. He slams Aramis back against the wall and realizes his mistake the second his friend goes stiff.

"Shit," Athos breathes out.

Hurriedly shifts his arm and weight against the wall, his other arm warping under his ribs as tries to tamp down the desire to curl into himself. Stares wide eyed instead at the pain etched on the too pale face in front of him. But when Aramis opens his eyes they look past Athos, the dull acceptance is a horrible shade in his eyes.

"I broke it," he exhales.

And that hits harder than any punch he could have delivered.

"I'll have to break it, the best thing in my life and I have to break it," Aramis' eyes flick aside to meet his, "they call us the Inseparables you know,"

He knows, has heard it for half a decade now.

"God I broke it Athos – I didn't bloody think and I broke it," he raises a shaking hand to clutch at his hair, "you warned me, Porthos warned me – but I love her and my son and I can't – can't trust myself anymore,"

And Athos cannot keep the flinch back at that declaration. Watches silently as his friend slides down to sit on the muddy floor and leans his own forehead against the fist he has pressed against the wall. Tries to tell himself that it's the fever talking, that it's not his fault in any way that his friend had come to this solution, but the lie falls short in the face of the cracks that Aramis had thrown into light. He closes his eyes and wishes he could un-see the fissures that are spreading out from where they stand and threatening to sink all that he had built in the years he had been a Musketeer.

Wrapping his arms around his middle Athos carefully maneuvers himself to sit by his friend. Aramis is not looking his way as he stares ahead and Athos lets his own gaze travel over the far wall, he needs to find the trust his friend has lost in himself.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen when you wanted to tell me about Lady Solange," he says.

"I never gave you any reason to do so, knowing myself I would have reacted the same way," Aramis' gaze is still fixed afar as he draws up a knee and slides a bit against the wall at his back. His movements are stiff and slow and Athos fears what this blatant search for a cool comfort is costing the abused back pressed against the wall.

"I should have given you a chance to speak,"

"I've set you on war with yourself," Aramis swings his head to face him, a brittle smile on his face, "the least I could do is accept the ramifications of it,"

"You haven't –"

"Are you saying your anger at me is not because I've held you back from your duty and made you betray the crown you so honorably serve?"

Athos stares, even when the smile turns knowing and his friend looks away, he still stares at Aramis. Because suddenly it's clear to him that duty and honor has nothing to do with the fury that's been burning in him ever since that day in the convent. His eyes widen at the sudden realization and his arms tighten around himself.

His gut churns as the chinks in his own armor become glaringly obvious.

Honor and duty had been the pillars of his life, the ones upon which he had hung to death the love of his life. But this is about fear, that is where his anger stems from, fear not for his life but for the life of the man beside him; the fear of losing this friendship to death or otherwise.

And in his fear the distance he had created to protect himself has left them too far apart.

"We need a plan," Aramis says, wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, "I don't think either of us will survive another round like that,"

It hits him like a punch to the gut that they are beyond the point of return; that his friend seems to have accepted that too. He blinks and tries to un-stick the words from the back of his throat. Wants to set things straight, find some way to salvage the friendship that had saved him all those years ago.

"Thierry would be half way to Paris, more than halfway if he'd have switched horses at the Red Guard outpost without stopping for a rest," Aramis goes on, "but that's still a day and a few hours we have to survive,"

But the time to build bridges is past.

"We need to buy time," Athos lets his head fall back against the wall, picks out one thread of his thoughts from the other, "prove to Lady Solange that she still needs us alive,"

"I could –"

"No!" Athos sits up, his heart sinking even as nausea rises at the mere thought of it, "Don't even dare to try using your tricks on her. You are not offering yourself to that woman!"

And Aramis laughs dry and low, grins as he turns to look at Athos with an arched brow.

"Not in this condition I can't," he says, tilts his head to the side with eyes full of humor, "just what sort of belief do you hold about my charm anyway? Regardless what the stories about me say mon ami, I don't actually cast spells."

"I have my suspicions,"

"As long as you don't air them. I'd rather avoid being burnt at the stake" Aramis says, a slow smile appearing on his face as he bumps his shoulder with Athos', "and then there's my rather adamant preference to remain alive generally,"

"Oh you're not dying until I shoot you," a tentative grin curls on Athos' face.

And drops instantly when they hear footfalls against the soaked ground beyond their prison. Athos glances at the narrow window and finds it raining still, even if the thunder seems to have grown into a distant rumble. He silently warns Aramis to not jump into some half-baked plan and watched the men who enter their prison.

Gustav stares; mouth slack and eyes wide that travel from one man to the other before settling on the closed wound trailing onto Athos' front. Athos looks to Aramis, finds the same fierce pride in his friend that he feels and they turn to regard their captor.

Athos smirks.

So does Aramis.

Gustav clicks his mouth shut and pulls himself to his full height.

"Still alive I see,"

"And planning to be for quite a while," Athos inclines his head to the side, "did you come to dispose off my corpse?"

"I came for him actually," Gustav nods towards Aramis.

The men behind him move to do his silent bidding and Aramis does not resist, goes with the men who haul him to his feet and take him to Gustav. It is only when their captor motions towards Athos with the order to finish him that his friend reacts; kicks the nearest leg to free himself and swings a punch at the man on his other side.

Athos pushes to his feet, one hand pressed to the wall for support as his eyes flick from the pistol that is pointed at him to Aramis' whose captors have recovered.

"Stop," Athos says just as the butt of Gustav's pistol hits his friend in the head and brings him to his knees, "just stop."

And Aramis is getting up again.

"Aramis stop,"

"Yes Aramis listen to him," Gustav says, "or I'll be tempted to take him and leave you dead in here,"

The defiance shines clear in the glare that levels at the red haired man, just as the man beside him whips his pistol down again and catches Aramis in the side of his head, rendering him limp in an instant. As Gustav leaves with two of his men dragging Aramis behind him, Athos finds himself staring at his executioners.

The man grins and Athos moves.

Shoves himself away from the wall and into the man who fires his pistol; taking the man to the ground. The shot goes wide but not enough as the ball burns a path in his flesh where it grazes past his leg above his knee. The cry is involuntary as he rolls away, out of the path of the shot at his back that buries into the man who had been under him instead.

Gritting his teeth Athos kicks the man left standing in the knee, bringing him down to his range before he cracks the empty pistol of the first executioner against his head. As the man falls in a heap Athos closes his eyes and falls back. Lays there and just breathes. Feels like he's floating out onto the sea as the solid ground beneath him refuses to settle, the feeling of movement continues behind his closed eyelids even as he lies still. And it takes the reserves of will he wasn't aware he posses to open his eyes and sit up.

Dark spots flash in his vision as he searches the motionless figures for weapons and frowns when he finds they were only carrying pistols. With his swimming vision and shaking fingers it takes him a few tries to load the pair that he retrieves.

Slipping out the door of his prison Athos allows himself a grin and follows the direction he had seen their captors taking with Aramis. The corridor is narrow and muddy just like the cell he had been in and as he moves past similar prisons on either side Athos tries not to imagine why the woman needs them; how many people has she ordered dead? Coerced into joining her mercenaries? How many lives has she ended with these vetting? How much information has she passed on to the Spanish?

Athos shudders; she had been so close to the Royals.

The walls curve ahead and he comes to a halt, there is light spilling in from beyond the bend and Athos moves slowly; wary of any guards that may be left down here. Pressing back against the wall he listens to the silence, strains for any sound movement, and when none is forthcoming he steps into the pale light. The area is empty, as were the stairs that led up to the main building from where the weak morning light is spilling down. Cautiously ascends to the polished floors above and hurries across the hallway towards the wide window beyond. The glass is fogged up and blurred with the drizzle outside. Yet Athos knows the distorted figures he sees moving towards the brown smudge beyond are Gustav and his men taking Aramis.

He pushes open the window before him and climbs out into the light rain. The ground grips onto his boots with each staggered step he takes, follows the trail in the mud that Aramis has left in his wake until his bleary view can reach the horse cart and the two riders beyond. His gaze shifts back to his friend and finds him struggling now.

Athos wipes at the water dripping into his eyes and takes aim.

Shoots down the man on Aramis' right and then the one on his left and nearly falls to his knees with the strength of the recoil that vibrates through his muscles, flaring the pain in chest to a new height. It's pathetic as far as escape plans go and even as he berates himself Athos can see Gustav fire at him. The shot goes wide as Aramis strikes the man in the gut before he is scrambling in his haste to make for Athos.

His friend stops before him with his hands on his knees, blood matted head rises for wild eyes to roam over him before the man straightens and pulls Athos into a tight embrace.

Reigniting the just ebbing pain in his chest.

"They said you were dead," Aramis says.

And a smile breaks on Athos' face despite everything, teasing one out from his friend as well when the man pulls away.

"That was rather presumptuous of them," Athos says.

"Indeed;" and Lady Solange is there, under an umbrella held up by a housemaid behind her, "it seems you're a difficult man to kill Monsieur Athos," her eyes turn to a fuming Gustav, "or I am simply surrounded by incompetent help,"

Athos eyes the horse cart and the two accompanying riders beyond her.

"Not incompetent enough to travel into a storm for you,"

"My employer doesn't like us getting off schedule," Lady Solange shrugs, "although he'd be surprised to find a Musketeer at his disposal,"

Delighted more likely Athos thinks, Vargas would love to torture the information out of the King's elite guard, to get to know the workings of the regiment created for the King's own safety would be invaluable in any scenario of attack. He pulls his gaze away from the awaiting rides and glances at the men around them. They are less than there were last night and on a good day Athos knows the two of them can fight through this number, but even armed they would not be able to given the condition that they are in right now.

"Two Musketeers would be a better surprise," he says.

The woman looks him up and down and Athos resists the urge to shift his weight on his feet, forces himself to meet the cool gaze that reaches his eyes.

"I've been told you are favored by your Captain," she says.

"Then I will have more useful information to divulge than him," he inclines his head towards his friend, "better for Vargas I would say,"

Something hard gleams in Lady Solange's eyes as she looks to Aramis and then back at Athos.

"You will risk betraying your King for him?"

"Yes,"

And there is a tried and tested truth in there, one that leaves even him surprised at the immediate reply. He can feel Aramis staring at him, his eyes boring holes into the side of his head but Athos refuses to back down from the assertion that has left him all the more lighter for being voiced.

Lady Solange arcs a brow in obvious skepticism.

"A King's Musketeer?" she prods.

"I'm a brother first,"

And he stands firmer; the ground beneath him feels surer because of that one simple fact.

Lady Solange smiles; it's all teeth.

And a knot tightens in Athos' stomach.

"In that case I have an offer for you two," she steps back and grins wider, "you duel one more time, this time to the death. And if," she glances from one face to the other, "if you survive I will let you go free,"

Athos looks to Aramis.

His gaze takes a second to settle, the grey edges around his view darkening for a breath. And it's clear by the thin shine in his friend's eyes that he is faring no better. Athos has counted ten men including Gustav but he knows they have no choice in the matter. His only solace is that at least they will not be fighting alone.

It is this what he holds onto as Athos takes up the weapons again and forces himself to not sway as he stands back to back with his friend. And waits for the attack, watches the men surrounding them to see who will step forward first and wonders if they should go for the first strike.

"Oh they will not be the one you're fighting," Lady Solange says from where she had stepped out of the ring of men, "you two will duel each other,"

Their eyes meet over their shoulders.

"No," Athos says.

Lowers the rapier and the main gauche.

"Then you both die where you stand," the lady says.

Aramis moves from behind him, steps around to his side and taps his blade with his own rapier. Athos turns to him with a glare, cannot believe that the man is going along with this insanity. Wants to wipe that sheepish grin from his face.

"No," he repeats.

"You have another plan yet?" Aramis asks, clinks the blades again, a bit harder this time.

Yet, Athos realizes, the man has said yet, his eyes narrow as they meet his friend's and suddenly understands what this is. He raises his own sword and ignores the fear that he may not be able to come up with a plan even with this tactic of buying time.

"Let's make this exciting shall we?" Aramis grins.

It is easy.

The thrusts and parries and the riposte, they've done it countless of times; a near dance that they've honed over years of practicing together. Athos smirks when he realizes the routine his friend has chosen is one they have often used to scare the cadets too well trained to consider themselves inexperienced. There are fists and trip ups they've picked up over the years, hits that cannot be avoided in a real fight and it only makes the act here more convincing.

Aramis lands a backhand to his face and Athos falls to a knee, has to strike his sword in the mud to keep from falling. The force behind it was nowhere near what they use even in practice and still he has to shake the flashing white spots dancing in his vision.

Using his sword for balance Athos gets back to his feet.

"You know this reminds me of my funeral that I failed to attend," he says.

Aramis cocks his head to the side, raises an eyebrow and smirks. Looking much too at ease with this than Athos would like. And that alone warns him that it is not a good idea; but they are running out of options.

Aramis lunges for his side and Athos blocks accordingly.

"I don't see any way to get our hands on pigs' blood here," Aramis says.

Athos steps ahead, blades meeting blow for blow as Aramis backtracks and shifts just in time as Athos whirls around and brings his blade down to his friend's side. Aramis' main gauche blocking it at the last second.

"Do you trust me?" Athos asks, voice low.

"Always,"

And Athos buries his parrying dagger up in Aramis' side.

There is a flash of surprise chased away by pain in the brown eyes and Aramis falls. Topples onto his side and lays still. Athos looks from him to the woman who steps through silent crowd, Gustav at her side. The hilt of his rapier is tight in his grip as he moves towards her, stopping short of few steps as Gustav's blade comes to rest against the side of his neck.

Athos glares at him from the corner of his eye as Lady Solange's cold gaze travels over the inert form on the ground before it shifts onto him.

"Congratulations Monsieur Athos you will be the one meeting Vargas," she says.

"You were never going to let us go free," it's a statement not a question.

"And risk having the two of you sent out? Together?" Lady Solange smirks, "that hadn't worked in my favor up till now,"

"You should have known," Gustav says.

"We did," and it's Aramis who answers him

Athos wastes no time to grab Lady Solange even as his friend thrusts the parrying dagger through Gustav's heart, grabs the man's own dagger and throws it to stab the man who was advancing on Athos. Who pins the woman's arms behind her back and brings the blade to her throat.

Lady Solange screams.

And her mercenaries stop their advance.

"Good," Athos says, tightens his hold and puts just enough pressure behind the blade to break skin, "now tell them to drop their weapons and stay where they are."

She looks to the nearest man and nods at him.

Athos is relieved to see her comply and lets his eyes stray to his friend for a second. Aramis is clutching the wound at the side of his chest as he stoops to pick up a pair of pistols. While Athos is sure that it is a flesh wound that would have missed all the important organs he does not like the amount of blood that is pouring forth from under the hand.

"Tell them to stay there," he says.

"Yes," she chokes, "stay where you are,"

Athos pulls her along towards the riders awaiting her orders. The two men atop the horses are surprised by the sight of their Lady but put up no resistance as Aramis takes their weapons to toss away from instant reach and orders them out of their saddles. Athos waits until his friend has swung up onto a horse, trusts his aim for the minutes it takes him to shove away Lady Solange and mount his own ride.

And then they are off, thundering out of the gates of Lady Solange's mansion and out of the village beyond. There are distant pops of pistol fire but Athos ducks and follows his friend out onto the road. He knows that she will follow, that she cannot afford to let them get away but they have a head start and as the drizzle thickens into rain Athos hopes that this advantage holds.

* * *

 **TBC**

 **Thank you everyone who read, follow and favorite this story. Dear people who take the time to leave me reviews thank you! your encouragement keeps the writing flame burning. And since I cannot reply to you personally, Thank you Jmp for leaving me your thoughts.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This is the last chapter and the longest in this story, hopefully not too dragged out :) THANK YOU everyone who read, favorite and followed this story. THANK YOU all those who left me reviews, your response to this story truly surprised and delighted me, its just wonderful to know people liked this one for all the unhappiness and excess of (my favorite) Athos &Aramis bromance; THANK YOU especially the guest reviewers, Beeblegirl, UKGuest, Sal and Guest, your words are cherished and doted upon.**

* * *

He grits his teeth to keep them from chattering.

Almost wishes for the clinging heat of the past days as they cut through the sheets of rain.

Blue eyes narrow to focus on the rider ahead even as he has to blink away the rain splashing in his face by the force of the wind; never before had he felt this soaked to the bone. A gust of rain bellows into him and his horse whines as it slows, trotting on its front hooves in fear of slipping. Tightening his grasp on the reins Athos looks over his shoulder and then back to the front; the world is drenched and hung on the clothes-line, swaying heavily with the weight of its moisture.

He shakes his head and forces down the bile bubbling up to his throat; the lightheadedness is mixed with a strange feeling of suspension between numbingly cold and yet terribly aware of the fiery blaze across his chest with every step of the horse under him. Digging his knees into the animal's sides he urges it forward; they cannot afford to stop if they want to keep ahead of Lady Solange and her mercenaries.

He is absolutely sure that they are coming after them but has no idea how far behind they are, the rain is a heavy drape across his sight and the constant roll of thunder is not helping his hearing. He coaxes his horse up to a slow canter and pulls along Aramis.

Has to slow his horse down to match the speed of the other horse.

" 'Mis!" he calls, reaches out to lay a hand on the taut shoulder, "Aramis?"

"Hmmm…?"

His friend pulls his head up, one hand still pressed to the stab wound while the other grasps the lax reins. Dark hair stick onto a pale face and the brown eyes that regard Athos have a disturbing glaze over them.

Athos squeezes the shoulder under his grasp in silent apology.

"We can't stop," he says, ignores the ache at having to shout above the noise of the down pour, "can't slow down too much,"

Aramis nods, the action a little wobbly as he turns to grasp at the reins properly and frowns when his fingers tangle clumsily with the leather strip, he wriggles them in utter confusion before simply closing a fist around the loop. Athos pulls his gaze away from the decisive move and up to the other hand pressed to the side of his friend's chest; it is then that he notices and curses vehemently under his breath for not thinking about it first.

Because Aramis may have kept up a feeble attempt to staunch the blood flow from the entrance wound but the point where the blade had exited has been bleeding freely. The waxy pallor suddenly makes too much sense and Athos pulls his horse to a stop, forces it to turn its head at the abruptness of it and reaches out to stop his friend too.

Aramis is more surprised than inquisitive as he stares back at him.

"Can't stop," he says, stares down at the back of his horse's neck, "can't stop."

And there is that intensity in his gaze that Athos had witnessed in his posture when they had raced their horses in the moonlight, this echo of a persistent need to move that he now understands; sees it for the first time not as the restlessness that he had assumed characteristic of his passionate friend but a deep-seated fear.

"Can't stop," Aramis repeats, blinks rapidly before he looks to Athos again, "can't stop,"

It's a declaration and a plea rolled into one.

Athos pulls their horses closer and grasps his friend by the forearm, fingers digging into skin with the need to anchor him; to hold on, to tether him lest he slips away.

"For a while you can," he says.

And he doesn't care that Lady Solange is gaining on them as he speaks, knows now what had frightened him about this compulsion he had seen in his friend at the start of their assignment. Because Athos is familiar with it, understands too well the need to keep moving; has been caught in it too when his life had crumbled from under his feet. It scares him to know that his friend would feel this alone and this lost in their midst and wonders if the time is past to make him stop like Porthos and Aramis had done for him.

It makes him hold on that much tighter to the man.

"You can stop Aramis, stop, rest and then we'll go together," he says.

Aramis' shoulders sag like he had been waiting for just these words from Athos. The gratitude is raw in his gaze as the hand with the reins shifts and clasps Athos' forearm in return. He does not let go even as Athos wrestles out of his clinging shirt, clenches his jaw shut at the pain it costs him and bundles up the soggy cloth to press it to the bleeding stab wound at Aramis' back. His friend doesn't even twitch, simply holds on tighter.

"Need something to hold it in place," Athos mutters to himself.

"Your belt,"

"What?

"To hold it in place,"

Athos nods as he withdraws his hold from his friends' arm and wipes the rain away from his face, fumbles with the clasp of his belt and slides it out. A sickening feeling roils in his gut at the feel of it but Athos shoves it back and looks to his friend.

"This will hurt," he says.

"Go ahead," Aramis closes his eyes.

And lets him fold the drenched and blood stained shirt so that it can cover both ends of the stab wound before Athos loops the belt around his front, pulls it taut despite the groan that escapes Aramis. Athos forces himself to ignore the way it cuts into the bruises at his friend's back. His hands are shaking as he buckles the leather in place before he sits back in the saddle. Clenches his hands into fists and stares down at the white knuckles, his throat tightening with guilt and vision blurring for a reason that has nothing to do with the rain.

The grimy hand that comes to wrap around his wrist is a surprise. He looks up to find Aramis studying him and a smile flashes onto his friend's face when their eyes meet.

"Thank you," Aramis says.

And Athos swallows hard.

Shakes his head in denial.

"Thank you," Aramis says again and squeezes his wrist once before he lets go, "we should be moving,"

And Athos turns his horse to fall into stride with the one beside him, takes refuge in the presence of his friend beside him while he knows the enemy is gaining on them faster for their momentary reprieve.

* * *

It comes with the crack of a pistol shot.

A volley of metal follows amidst the flash of lightening and the crash of thunder.

It is too far to be lethal but not far enough. Their horses startle and pick up speed, mud splattering up to the flanks and ears flattening in an effort to get away from the danger. Athos muses how common is this desire to survive before he glances over his shoulder at the enemy. Cannot count them at the distance in the rain but knows they must have taken the route in the forest to get here this quickly.

He ducks instinctually when more shots echo out and glances at his friend.

Aramis has a pistol in his hand.

And Athos feels like laughing.

Instead he takes the one his friend tosses at him and feels a strange pride unfurl in his chest, its dark and hard and gleams with a grim satisfaction. If they were to die today they would go down fighting side by side.

His thoughts are disrupted when the sound of firing coming abruptly closer. Athos stares ahead from where the new shots are being fired at them and yanks at the reins to pull his horse to a stop, bites back the scream that threatens to tear from him at the exertion; and watches in horror as Aramis' horse rears up beside him, depositing its rider onto the road.

For a second Athos catches the splash of unmistakable Musketeer blue in the watery haze ahead but then they are being fired at from both sides again. He dismounts as quickly as he can and half staggers towards his friend who has rolled onto his side; reaches him in time to find his friend swaying up onto his feet, only to have to duck down at the sound of unseen pistol shots.

"I think our cavalry has arrived," Athos says with a jerk of his head in the direction they had been going.

Aramis follows his gesture and looks back to him with blank puzzlement.

"They are shooting at us?" there is something akin to wonder in his tone.

Athos pulls him along towards the roadside.

"More like they think we're shooting at them," he says.

As the spooked horses dart of ahead of them into the forest, Athos and Aramis follow them into the tree line at a slower, stumbling pace. The silence under the canopy is loud; the flimsy shelter feels surprisingly secure after the open road. Athos guides Aramis deeper into the thicket, safe from any chance of a stray pistol shot.

"Shouldn't we be going towards the cavalry that came for us?" Aramis asks.

"Can't risk them shooting us in confusion," Athos says.

And leans against a tree, watches his friend stare back the way they had come and finds himself listening closely to the muffled sound of battle that reaches them. Aramis takes half a step towards the melee on the road and reaches out to catch his balance against a tree, looks back at Athos with wide eyes.

"We can't leave them like that," he says, "we have to help them,"

"We won't be of any help,"

"But Marsac we have to – they'll be killed – we can't –"

In three steps Athos closes the distance between them and grasps the man by the arm, turns him around with harsh tug and forces the brown eyes to meet his gaze. Has no idea if it's the head wound or the fever playing tricks on his friend but refuses to let the man linger in that forest of his memories.

"This is not Savoy," he says clearly, with no trembling that is there in his flesh, "Not. Savoy,"

Aramis blinks twice in quick succession then gives a curt nod. Athos does not let him go and pulls him back towards the tree he had been leaning against. With his strength having drained out on the road somewhere in the rain Athos presses his back to the tree and slides down.

"We'll wait here," he says, "sit a while with me?"

Aramis makes no move to release the hold Athos has on his arm and obliges by descending slowly to the ground, his free arm coming to curl around low on his chest as he eases to sit beside Athos. He is truly shivering now and flinching with each harsh jolt that works its way through his sore body. The shirt bound with the belt is stained red and Athos fears that the force of the trembling would loosen it off the wound soon.

"C'mere," he says.

Lays the pistol he had been carrying by his side and opens his stiff fingers from where they have been holding on to his friend, lifts a shaky arm to wrap around the belt high across Aramis' chest. Pinning the cloth over the wound with his arm and hand; Athos finds no resistance as he pulls the man close until his friend's back is resting against his side.

For a few seconds there is only the patter of rain on leaves and the sound of their own breathing.

Athos lets his head tip back against the bark of the tree and finds himself staring at the green and grey web above. Drops of rain drip down to them at an uneven rhythm and accost them with a chilling shower when a gust of wind blows. Athos wishes he could ignore the unnatural warmth emitting from the man at his side.

His arm tightens around Aramis.

"I shot Marsac,"

"What?"

Athos looks down at the back of the dark head by his shoulder. But his friend is looking the other way, eyes fixed onto the trees before him and makes no move to turn and face Athos.

"I can't see you dead by my actions too,"

And that is a pain Athos is familiar with, understands too well how much it hurts to lose a brother because of the decisions that you've made. Swallowing the knot in his throat he stares ahead as his eyes burn.

"You won't," he says.

"I don't wan' to," Aramis says, voice slurring around the edges, "don't want you dead an' I don't want t' go," his head dips as if it's too heavy for his neck to hold up anymore, voice lowering to just above a whisper, "but 'f it comes down to 't you let me go,"

Athos shakes his head and his hand flexes where it is pressing against the stab wound at his friend's back.

"Jus' let m' go 'thos," Aramis says.

"No,"

Athos ignores how thick his voice comes out as the weight against his side sags abruptly; his friend goes limp without a warning and he gathers him close, pulls him near until he's cradling most of Aramis' upper body in his lap. Tamps down the fear crawling up his spine at dead weight in his arms and presses his fingers against Aramis' neck. Closes his eyes and tries to stop the trembling in his fingers as he presses down hard; lets go a breath with a prayer of thanks he hadn't said in years when he feels the heartbeat against his fingertips.

"Don't you dare try to leave," Athos says,

Brings the arm under Aramis around his shoulders, lifting the man closer still and adjusts the pressure onto the wound he had been staunching. Wraps his bloodstained fingers around his pistol at his side and brings it to rest against his thigh.

"I'm not letting you go, so don't you dare try."

Blue eyes scan the forest as he listens to the wind and the cries of men it bears to him. A part of him is aware that he should go out to the road and get help, but he cannot bring himself to leave behind the man he had asked to stay, the thought that his departure would signal the other's keeps him pinned in place. Fingers growing numb over a blood soaked cloth and the hard wood of a pistol.

The footfalls on the underbrush are loud.

They are heavy and quick.

Coming nearer too fast from up ahead and Athos raises his weapon just as the man stumbles into sight. Pauses as his eyes fix onto Athos and Aramis and then he is moving again, hurrying over even as he calls at someone over his shoulder.

Athos cocks the pistol he has trained on the figure.

The man stops in his tracks, glances down at the man in Athos' hold before meeting his eyes. There is something familiar about the gaze that meets his and tilting his head to the side Athos stays his finger, keeps it hovering over the trigger.

"Athos?"

"Don't come forward,"

"Alright, alright, I won't," the man raises his hands a little, there are no weapons there, "Athos it's me –"

"Oh you found them!"

Athos swings his weapon to aim at the new arrival. Ignores the surprised exclamation that comes from that way before the other man steps into his line of fire. His large frame towering over them as he steps nearer.

"Athos it's Porthos," he says, "d'Artagnan and I have come to bring you home,"

But that's not possible; they are still a day away. Athos looks from one figure to the other, he has one shot and if he takes it there is still another man left to take them down. And it's not just his own life at stake.

"We were at the outpost when Thierry came; the Captain had sent five of us there," the man comes closer before slowly sinking to his knees, their faces are at level now and the worry is clear for Athos to see, "and we decided not to wait for orders when we found out you were in trouble, I'll be blaming you two for this transgression when the Captain starts screaming."

The man grins at him; it's bright and warm despite the concern shining in his dark eyes.

"Porthos?" Athos breathes out.

"Were you expecting a friendly woodland sprite?" he closes the distance between them, one hand reaching for Athos' shoulder even as the other lowers his hand with the weapon, "I'd take that sort of hope from 'Mis but not from you mon ami,"

"Porthos," he finds it falling from his lips again, "Porthos you're here,"

And he is, solid and strong and warm where he grasps the back of Athos' neck and gives it a squeeze. Athos leans forward into the touch, forgetting the need to have a support at his back and watches the man press his fingers to Aramis' neck, witnesses the unshed tears of fervent relief at finding the pulse there.

It is when the man reaches to take the weight from him that Athos stiffens. A sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper escapes him and his arm tightens around his friend, his free hand coming to tangle in the blood matter hair on the head that is resting against his shoulder. The warning is clear in his glare that fixes on the man before him.

"Alright, no problem, I get it. You hold on to him for us," Porthos nods as he stands.

Takes off his doublet and drapes it over Aramis as another doublet comes to rest around Athos' own shoulders. He looks up to find the young face set in grim concern as d'Artagnan pulls the collar snug around his neck and crouches beside Athos. Wipes the back of his arm over his wet face before he lays a hand on Athos' leg, cringes and pulls it back immediately.

"He's bleeding Porthos," he says, raising red stained fingers for the other to see.

Athos frowns, cannot understand the scowl on d'Artagnan's face nor the way Porthos curses as he too crouches at his side. But a hiss pushes through his teeth as he feels them prod at the torn flesh above his knee. Porthos is whispering apologies even as he fastens his bandana over the wound.

There is a rustle in the trees.

"Porthos we –" the man stops short as Athos takes up the pistol again and points it at the new arrival.

The man stares wide eyed and Athos lowers his weapon; does not let it go. The blue of his cloak is a reassurance but so is the weight of the pistol in Athos' grasp.

"You've secured the prisoners?" Porthos asks.

"Yes, the Lady isn't happy though,"

"She came after us herself?" Athos stares.

He had not expected that, had imagined she would send her mercenaries out to bring them back. A warm hand settles on his shoulder again and he turns to look at his friend at his side.

"You've set her in temper it seems," Porthos smiles, turns back to the other Musketeer, "Pierre did you round up all the horses?"

"Yes,"

"The wounded?"

"None, but they lost three men,"

"We'll send a cart for them," Porthos says as he shifts to sit on his knees, dismissing the other Musketeer over his shoulder.

Athos watches the man leave, calling onto others to fall back too and the blue gaze shifts back to the man before him. Porthos' hand hovers over Aramis' shoulder but the dark eyes look to him for permission, and Athos finds no reason that he should. He keeps his peace as his friend reaches out to grasp Aramis by the back of his neck and with an arm around his middle; Porthos pulls and Athos' clasp tightens.

"I'm not going to hurt him,"

Not like I did Athos wonders and breathes out slowly.

"I know," he says.

Still it takes a force of will for him to let the other man go.

He stares as Porthos settles their friend in his hold with a gentleness that few would expect from the man. His vision wavers a bit and he shivers at the loss of warmth in his hold; still Athos is not expecting the colorful expletives from their farmer turned Musketeer at his side. He raises an eyebrow at d'Artagnan's suddenly pale face and flinches when the young fingers graze over the stitches across his chest.

"That – that's –" he swallows thickly, there is a wet sheen over his eyes when he looks up to his face, "no wonder you look this grey,"

And Athos knows he should say something, reassure him, tell him that it's over, that it's taken care of but words are not forthcoming. There is a heavy numbness spreading out from his extremities and snaking up into his spine.

"We need to get 'em help," Porthos' voice is gruff and tight.

His movements slow and careful as he shifts to his feet pulling Aramis up with him, minding where he holds his friend to keep him draped onto his side. Athos feels d'Artagnan shift under his arm, stands up with his support and his knees buckle, the forest spins and wavers and Athos clenches his eyes shut.

"Slow an' easy," Porthos rumbles from somewhere.

"Let me take some of the weight Athos," d'Artagnan's voice is close to his ear, his hold firm, "I can handle it; let me help."

And Athos wonders when their impulsive young one had grown into this steady presence, but he is too tired to question it; allows the younger man to help him out of the forest and onto the road. Would have been surprised by the red cloaked figures among the blue if he had the strength to spare.

"Is there a surgeon at the outpost Alain?" Porthos asks one of them.

The man in red nods and moves forward to help Porthos when his horse shifts. Athos leans heavily on d'Artagnan and lets his friend give him a leg up to mount the horse in front of him. Once he is sure that he won't be slipping out of the saddle he looks to Porthos.

"I'll take him," he says.

Porthos adjusts his arm around Aramis' back and looks up at him in surprise, squinting against the rain.

"You shouldn't be riding alone yourself," he says.

Athos cannot explain to the man that after everything they had been through he needs his friend within reach, needs to know that the other is alive, that he is still there. Cannot tell Porthos that Aramis had been thinking of leaving, that the man believes it to be the right choice, had asked Athos to let him go.

But then Porthos' gaze softens and he motions for d'Artagnan to help him settle Aramis in front of Athos. It does nothing to bring around the unconscious man and Athos feels the worry spike as he holds onto his friend much like he had done sitting in the forest. Grasps the reins with one hand and turns to face Porthos who brings his horse to his side. The man studies him before he reaches out and plops his hat onto Athos' head.

"Don't faint on me," he says.

Athos feels a thin smile curling on his lips and it stays there as he guides his horse in step between Porthos and d'Artagnan. The five Red Guards and three other Musketeers spread out to surround their sullen prisoners. Athos glances over his shoulder at the drenched Lady Solange, who glares back with a haughty silence, before he turns his attention to the road. Ignores the exhaustion and the pain that crashes into him like waves on a shore, ebbing and flowing faster as Porthos sets a quick pace despite the rain; and Athos cannot fault him for the urgency.

* * *

His arms are empty.

That is the first thing he registers; the blissful feeling of being clean, free of the mud and grime and blood follows next. Athos frowns as he blinks his eyes open under an unfamiliar roof. Feels the heavy lead in his bones and his flesh weighs like saturated cotton; there is a perpetual sense of sinking as he lies on his back and it is not helping the cloying churning in his stomach.

His arms are empty.

Aramis.

Athos rolls onto his side in an attempt to get up and finds the one he is searching for in the bed by his side. The relief is enough to let through the pain to his awareness; the throb has a sharp cutting edge with the position he is in and he bites his lip to keep from crying out. Pushing himself up on his arm he swings his feet down onto the floor and waits for the room to settle. The small window in the far wall is a black patch letting in a cool breeze, but the narrow ward is lit up with the warm glow of lanterns and candles.

Athos glances down at himself, notes the clean shirt and braies he is in as his fingers drift over the stitched wound across his chest. It burns as if it had been rubbed raw. He cannot remember that happening, or coming into this room and his heartbeat picks up at the thought; for all his pursuit of inebriation Athos hates loss of control.

The blank space is unsettling in his mind and the lack of awareness through the obvious manhandling flutters in his stomach.

A snuffle behind him makes him look over his shoulder and a fond smile touches his face. D'Artagnan is half sprawled over the foot of his bed by which he had been sitting, dark hair fan over the half of his face not pressed into the linen.

With a shake of his head Athos lets him be and turns back, becomes aware of the pull of bandages on his arm and above his knee and scratches lightly over the thick bindings around his leg. Takes a minute to gather his strength and gets to his feet, shuffles across the short distance to drop slowly into the chair placed by the head of Aramis' cot.

The pungent smell of the paste used to draw out infection lingers in the air. His friend is inclined onto his side facing Athos, the stab wound stitched close but not bandaged and as his eyes trace the bare torso Athos is glad that he cannot see his friend's back; shivers at the thought of waking up to that testament of violence by his hands. A sheen of sweat covers Aramis and Athos reaches out to brush the back of his fingers against the warm forehead, sweeps back the loose dark curls stuck onto the clammy skin with his fingertips and lays his palm across Aramis' brow.

Can feel the swollen bump under his fingers where they rest in his hair at the side of his head and wishes the man would wake up; he had seen innocent bumps to the head whisk away lives in quiet slumber and his fingers curl slightly at the thought, tangle in the dark hair and his eyes blur.

"Not letting you go 'Mis," his voice is low and hoarse, scratches against his dry throat.

There is a snick of a door opening behind him and he recognizes the pair of footsteps before the men come around Aramis' bed and in his line of sight.

"You fainted on me," Porthos says.

"I shall endeavor to do better next time,"

Porthos chuckles as he moves on to pour water into a pewter cup and hands it over to Athos.

Water had never tasted sweeter.

Athos wishes it was wine.

The smirk on Porthos' face tells him that his friend knows what he is thinking even as the big man refills his cup and wordlessly pushes it back in Athos' free hand, his other still resting on Aramis' head. He makes no move to pull it away and looks to the Captain who had stopped by the foot of Aramis' bed.

Treville crosses his arms before his chest; there is a grim fire in his blue eyes that roam over his fallen soldier before coming to rest on Athos.

"Thierry told me Lady Solange had taken you prisoners," he says.

"She is working for Vargas,"

"And Rochefort," the Captain raises an eyebrow, "that does not bode well,"

"If we can get her to confess as a link between the two it could bring Rochefort's true face before His Majesty," Athos says, swipes his fingers once through the sweat damp hair under his hand before he pulls his hand away, "what we went through shouldn't be in vain,"

"We have no proof,"

"We are proof Captain," there is steel under his quiet exhaustion, "her mercenaries might talk too given the right motivation."

"Rochefort would try to save her," Treville points out.

"And we won't let that happen," Porthos says.

Sits down on the bed behind Aramis; his hand coming to rest on his injured friend's arm, fingers curling in a gentle grip before he looks to the Captain.

"They very nearly cut open Athos, the surgeon did say that he wouldn't pull the stitches already put in but he is worried that the wound would get infected. The wound on his arm is infected Captain and 'Mis –" he clears his throat and squares his shoulders, dark eyes hardening, "none of those men are going free after this."

A shadow of worry passes over Captain Treville's face.

"He hasn't woken up at all?" he asks.

"Not even when the surgeon cleaned the cuts on his back," Porthos shakes his head.

Athos winces but finds in his heart that he is thankful that his friend hadn't been awake for that.

"I will take the prisoners with me in the morning," the Captain says, "and see if one of her men talks,"

"I can help with that," Porthos says, "after what they did to these two, I'd be happy to take them for a round. Just tell me which one of them did this to Aramis."

His voice is trembling with rage and Athos holds onto the cup with both hands, so tight that he is sure he is leaving dents in the silver surface. What seeps into him is not fear but disgust; like a stain it spreads out from the hollow between his ribs, bears down on his breathing, sticks to the back of his throat and burns in his eyes. He finds that he is staring at the water in his hands when a drop breaks the surface into ripples.

Athos places the cup on the table by the bed and raises a hand to press away the moisture from his eyes.

"Which one was it Athos?" Porthos' voice gentle, "I need to know who did this,"

Athos stares at his hands in his lap, clenches them into fists and looks up to meet Porthos' gaze.

"I did,"

Porthos stares.

So does Treville.

D'Artagnan snorts and wakes himself up.

"The stab wound and the back are by my hand."

"You?" Porthos looks from him to Aramis, hands curling into fists, "you did this?"

The disbelief is worse than the anger could ever be. Athos grits his teeth and levels a challenging glare at his friend. Ignores the tears that are rising as a lump in his throat and the ache in his breath that has nothing to do with his wound.

"I did it," he says, "with a belt and a dagger,"

Porthos flinches.

Rises to his feet with a barely contained growl and rounds the bed, stopping only when the Captain's arm comes across his chest. Athos pushes to his feet too, pushes away from d'Artagnan who appears at his side with a steadying hand and bumps back into Aramis' bed.

"The surgeon had to cut open those wounds," Porthos hisses, "said lancing wasn't enough. He cut them open deep to clean them out. Are you saying that you – you're the one who –"

"Flayed his back?" Athos arcs an eyebrow, can feel the anger rolling off his friend, wishes the man would lose it already.

"Yes I did that,"

"WHY?"

"Wasn't 'is fault,"

Every eye turns to Aramis and d'Artagnan moves to the other side of the bed to keep the man from getting up. It's an exercise in vain as their friend pushes to sit up regardless, arms shaking under the strain until d'Artagnan gives up and just hauls him into a sitting position.

"Wasn't his fault," Aramis repeats, reaches out and tangles his fingers in Athos' sleeve, blinking slowly as if trying to clear the haze clinging to his vision,"Athos had t' do it. Jus' let us explain."

He is breathing heavily and the dark eyes are blown wide when they look up at Athos.

"You explain," he says, tries to get his breathing under control, "or I'll have to."

"There is nothing to explain,"

Aramis fixed him with a glassy glare and Athos glares right back; but his friend does not look away.

"Do you think any one of us would hurt the other out of sheer malice?" Aramis asks.

It's a question to no one and everyone and though he is not looking Athos can tell Porthos' anger is dissipating, like the summer storm that had just slipped off with a grumble of thunder but has left the air a bit clearer in its wake. Athos' eyes narrow, guilt burns up from his stomach to his throat; it's a sour taste in his mouth.

"Stop justifying it," he says.

"It was justified," Aramis has yet to drop his gaze.

Captain Treville steps away from Porthos and gently but firmly pushes Athos down onto the chair, blue eyes meeting blue in a quiet battle of will.

"This will not be discusses further until I say so," the Captain turns to the two uninjured Musketeers, "You two will explain to me how this battle started mid road and you two," he looked from Athos to Aramis, "will rest until we return with dinner."

The other two follow him out, Porthos reaching out to grasp his shoulder once before he goes. Athos can feel his compassion and understanding like a brand on his skin, wants some way to rid himself of it but looks away from Aramis to find themselves alone already. He should have asked them to bring back wine, a few bottles for him alone to sufficiently drown in.

"Stop it," Aramis says.

Athos arcs an eyebrow.

"Stop looking for a way to punish yourself over this," his friend sways a little before he locks his elbows, knuckles turning white where they grasp the edge of the of the cot, "you had to do it,"

Athos has nothing to say to that and tries to find the space in his conscience for another heap of culpability, nudges around the old shards to find a place for the new ones since his chance to atone, to find a way to crush this guilt to nothing is now lost. He picks up the cup from the table and plucking his friend's hand from the side of the bed he wraps the shaking fingers around it.

Aramis drinks it all in one go.

And clasps his arm when Athos reaches for the empty cup.

"If forgiveness is what you seek then you have it mon ami," he says.

It cannot be this easy, cannot be this simple. He has not even thought of achieving absolution without penance. It goes against everything he had carried on his shoulders for a lifetime it seems.

"I did not ask for it,"

"Then take it as a gift," Aramis smirks.

Lets him go and lists to the side. It's a slow descent back into the position he had been in and Athos finds that he is unable to move through it all. He is still staring down at his friend as the man settles onto his side, wincing as he does.

"Why?" Athos has to ask, confusion coloring his voice.

Aramis turns his head to meet his gaze; there is a hint of the spark Athos hasn't realized he had missed in the brown eyes.

"We are brothers are we not?" Aramis asks.

A slow smile curls onto Athos' face, the weight is still there pressing against his heart but it does not hurt that much, he will never forget what he had to do to his friend but it no longer casts that long a shadow.

"Brothers," Athos tastes the word as he sits back in the chair, "yes we are,"

* * *

They had assumed Rochefort would save her.

They had never imagined he would push for her execution.

Athos believes that he has done this to keep his secrets from coming to light, tells the Captain as much and fumes over the order that no Musketeer is to come into contact with Lady Solange during her trial. A trial that does not touch upon her connection with Rochefort.

Athos downs the last of the wine in his cup and takes to his feet, putting his hat on as he goes. It has been a week since their return to Paris and while he is officially on duty the Captain has yet to give him an assignment that takes him out of the garrison. Going past the stables a glance reveals the man he is searching for is not there for once during his recovery.

His boots click against the wooden floor as he makes Aramis' room; his eyes meet his friend's through the open window, finding him standing by his bed in only his breeches. Athos walks past and doesn't bother knocking on the door he pushes open. His friend throws him a grin over his shoulder before he turns back to the items scattered on his bed.

His shirt, coat, sash and hat are laid out on one side, the weapons and weapons' belt on the other; on the table by the bed sits the pauldron. Athos looks from the items back to his friend before his eyes rest on the small container of the salve on the table by the pauldron, it's open and the faint smell in the room is the same that hangs about Athos these days.

Picking it up, he hooks the only chair in the room with his foot and drags it closer.

"Sit," he says.

Aramis looks to him in surprise before he shakes his head.

"You don't have to, I'll manage,"

Athos gives him a pointed glare and Aramis huffs, turns the chair around and straddles it. This is Porthos' territory; he is the one who had helped Aramis with the wounds that the man himself cannot reach, but with him on duty at the Palace and Aramis to get back on duty at the evening muster the problem is obvious.

"Don't you have cadets to train?" Aramis does not turn around, "The Captain will be exceptionally temperamental with his sour mood upon his return."

There it is, the way out for him. As much as it irks him that his friend hadn't sought his help he understands the option of backing out that Aramis is offering him even now; he is not of a tactile nature, some would even say it pains him and he knows that it is what he wants them to think. Athos' touch is only offered in dire circumstances.

Which this is not.

But there had once been Olivier who had sought every opportunity for Maman's caresses and Papa's rare pat on the head; and there had once been Ollie who had kissed scraped palms and soothed bumps and bruises and hugged his little brother to sleep during thunder storms.

Before he became the unmovable mountain, there was once a man.

"Athos?"

"Stop squirming,"

"I'm not –"

Aramis stops short as the salve covered fingertips brush over the worst cut on his back and even if he sits rigid Athos continues his ministrations. Knows too well how much the initial contact hurts, makes sure to get that over quickly and carefully works the salve into the torn skin, pleased to find it healing nicely.

"Thomas once burnt his fingers with some hot syrup, left him scared of sticky substances for quite a while," he has no idea why he is talking but does not fail to note the way his friend's posture eases, "that and a general distrust for the house staff carrying such a concoction. I was the only one he allowed to get close to him with the ointments from then on."

Aramis chuckles, crosses his arm over the backrest of the chair and props his chin on them. Athos finishes his work and setting the container on the table behind him wipes his hands on the rag lying there. His friend presses the side his face over his crossed arms and regards the items laid out over his bed.

"Thank you,"

Athos nods, leans back against the small table and stares at the light of the setting sun through the open window.

"They'll be getting back now," he says.

"I'm actually glad I wasn't there for her beheading," Aramis admits.

Athos is too, but he cannot completely squash the fear this order by His Majesty had stirred in him. He had not realized just how close Rochefort was to the royal ear, how much sway he held over the throne. It sends a shiver down his spin and he shifts on his feet.

"Rochefort made sure that she was silenced," he says, "once she confessed her association with Vargas everything else out of her mouth lost credibility,"

"He lurks Athos; have you noticed?" Aramis asks, "Like a snake in grass he is always too close around their Majesties then we had ever realized,"

"We will protect them, all three of them," Athos says.

Follows Aramis' line of sight to the folded paper lying innocently among his weapons and Athos is sure without being told that it declares his friend's resignation of his commission. Picking up the pauldron from the table he places it before the eyes staring at the letter and rests a hand on his friend's shoulder, his clasp just shy of painful.

"Stay," he says.

Because he refuses to accept a tomorrow where he will not have his brothers at his side. Knows that with Aramis gone, Porthos' laugh will follow and soon d'Artagnan's innocence would vanish and he would have no reason to pull his head out of the bucket he dunks it in every morning because there would be no hurry to rescue Aramis from his mistress' window.

"Stay," he repeats.

"I'll try for as long as I can,"

And that is not the promise he is looking for but that is only what his friend can offer. It's a broken mirror he is staring at and with the light that Aramis refuses to draw back, every fracture in its surface stares back at him. Athos only wonders why he had not seen it earlier.

He gives the shoulder under his grasp another squeeze and draws away. As his friend gets back to his feet Athos moves to the door, he is at the threshold when he stops, waits for the other man to pull on his shirt before he looks him in the eye. Remembers everything that had come to light in the past days and tries one last time to repair what had broken between them.

"For what it's worth, I trust you," he says.

Aramis smiles; there is a fragility to it that reminds him of another time, of standing in the street in front of a friend with desperation in his eyes and the work of a failed assassin like a corpse between them...

…" _So, you're content to do nothing? How much evidence do you need that something is badly wrong? What does it take to make you act?"_

" _I will never believe the Captain is a traitor."_

" _You think I want to?"…_

..."It is worth everything Athos," his friend says, shrugs lightly, "but you don't."

And Aramis turns away to put on his uniform, refusing to accept the lie and the peace it offers. Athos' fists clench at his sides, the denial he wants to voice not coming to his lips anymore. He stares at Aramis, and finds in his friend's easy acceptance of this loss the same man who knows what it is like to be the last one standing in a clearing littered with death, knows the betrayal of abandonment by a brother-in-arms and by his own strength that stopped him from following that parting friend; who knows the company of departed comrades as he awaits his own end amongst their remains.

For all the joyful masks he wears Athos sees the man underneath. So he leaves him be and finds his way back into the yard. Tries to force his mind away from the questions that had formed once Marsac had died and Aramis' faith in the Captain restored; but it seems like his skin has been peeled back and in that burning ache of the raw wound he finally understands the difference between the trust his friend offers, one built despite the proof and the trust Athos has lost in his friend because it was blind.

He looks up at the sound of approaching riders and searches his two friends among the Musketeers returning from the Palace. The Captain ignores him completely as he dismounts and heads for his office and Athos looks to where d'Artagnan stands, looking a bit pale and sweaty. Porthos appears at his side, his face grim as he guides the younger man to their table where Athos stands.

Wordlessly Athos offers his friends wine and re-fills their cups once they down the contents. Violence may be the way of their lives but the horror takes some time to seep in and numb their core, only to cut them off at the knees when they least expect it. Athos looks across the two men who have sat down on the bench and finds Aramis making his way towards them.

In the approaching evening he remembers that rain soaked afternoon…

..." _How much more proof do we need?"_

" _Treville didn't admit anything."_

" _He didn't need to. It was written on his face."_

" _The Captain is the finest man I've ever met, and when it comes down to it, I'd rather be on his side than Marsac's."_

" _You may be content to do nothing. I'm not."..._

...And it hits him that what he seeks is already lost, that night in the convent only cut deep where there had already been splinters. In every wrong that Aramis does and in every right way that Athos reacts they had unwound what had been holding them all together. And like a river flowing in only one direction there is no way left to turn back. There is only forward and Athos knows that the end has already begun without any of them being the wiser.

Aramis may not leave today or tomorrow but there is a farewell approaching that Athos can sense, can see the parting of the ways lying ahead in near future.

He glances to the other two and looks back up, his eyes unerringly meeting Aramis'. And there he finds between them that one truth that had been buried under all the lies now scraped away, the truth that they are brothers. So that no matter what paths life takes them on, their brotherhood would always find a way to bring them to the crossroads of their meeting again.

Aramis smiles, so does Athos.

Because that is a truth they will hold on to.

* * *

" _ **Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing  
and rightdoing there is a field.  
I'll meet you there."  
― Rumi **_

* * *

**END**


End file.
